


Touch And Go

by mariechomp



Series: Stay: A Sherlock Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 06:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16511042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariechomp/pseuds/mariechomp
Summary: Mycroft thinks Sherlock will last approximately 6 months doing undercover work in Eastern Europe, Sherlock thinks he'll last approximately 6 days. Being away from her causes him so much agony he can barely stand it. So he does the thing that he knows would break her heart, but it's the only way he knows how to cope. He never thought England would need him again.





	1. Chapter 1

_The second Afghan war brought honours and promotion to many. But for me it meant nothing but misfortune and disaster. I returned to England with my health irretrievably ruined and my future bleak. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London. That great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the empire are drained._

It was the mid-1800s and Dr. John Watson walked the streets of London with very little motivation. He had not been back from war long and he was eager to have a sense of normalcy in his life again, but with a newly bum leg and no place to live it was a lot easier said than done. He stopped and turned at the sound of his name, coming from the mouth of a man so vaguely familiar. He remembered the man as Mike Stamford and they shook hands when he caught up to him and they dipped into a nearby pub to catch up after many years apart. Mike told of his somewhat boring, normal life in London while Dr. Watson recounted a very watered down version of his tour in Aphganastan, relaying how lucky he was to have made it home when so many of his fellow soldiers did not. He took a swig of his drink and looked away from his friend, a hint of survivor's guilt showing through his guarded demeanor as Mike nodded his understanding.

"So, what now?" Mike said.

"I need a place to live." John replied, taking another swig of his drink, "Somewhere decent and affordable prices. It's not easy."

Mike chuckled, "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Hmm? Who was the first?"

Dr. Watson almost regretted asking when a half hour later Mike was leading him through the dark tunnels of the morgue at Bart's, the sound of distant whipping echoing off of the candlelit walls. John let slip his astonishment from his lips and Mike simply gave him a knowing smile, "It's an experiment, apparently. Beating corpses to establish how long after death bruising is still possible."

John rolled his eyes and continued on, obviously not impressed. Mike followed just next to him as he spoke, "Is there a medical point to that?"

"Not sure."

"Neither am I. So," John sucked in a breath with a hiss, the pain of his bad leg getting to him the longer he was on his feet. "Who is this friend of yours, then?"

Mike stopped walking and John turned to him with a questioning expression, but the knowing smirk on his friend's face told him all. He followed him into the door they stopped by and the whipping noise grew louder with every step. Mike called out to the man when he came into view. He was putting all of his might into beating the corpse that was lying on the table in front of him with a riding crop. He didn't answer at first and John cleared his throat.

"I do hope we're not interrupting." He said, his voice slightly elevated. With one last whip, the man stopped, looking at them with and obvious elevated heart rate, his breath wavering from the energy exerted in his so-called "experiment". He gave John a once over and buttoned up his waist coat.

"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive." He stated. John furrowed his eyebrows and Mike introduced them.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock." He was obviously laughing at John inwardly. Sherlock tossed the riding crop he was holding to John, who caught it without hesitation, receiving a smile from him as a reward.

"Excellent reflexes." He said, "You'll do."

"I'm sorry." John glanced between Sherlock and Mike, hoping some of the confusion would clear up but it was to no avail as Sherlock continued.

"I may have a suite of rooms near Regent's Park. Between us, the three of us could afford them."

"Rooms? Who said anything about rooms?"

"I did. I mentioned to Stamford this morning that we were in need of a fellow lodger. Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and a recent injury. Both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it. The conclusion seemed inescapable."

"We?" John was finally able to spit out, finding himself completely in awe at the man standing before him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but suddenly a smile graced his hard features and John and Mike turned to see a woman with her red hair pinned up under her hat, as most women wore those days. A confidant smirk balanced with the kindness in her silver eyes gave John a sense of strong loyalty as Sherlock approached her.

"Mr. Holmes, we're going to be late!" she smiled, picking up his coat and hat from the coat rack in the corner of the room, helping him into his coat when he reached her.

"Please, gentlemen, allow me to introduce my wife, Miss Charlotte Holmes."

John blinked in surprise at first, completely shocked that someone such as this Mr. Holmes would have a wife, but Mike jabbed him in the ribs and he looked over to find his friend with his hat over his chest and slightly bowed to Miss Holmes. He blushed at his disgraceful manners towards a lady and immediately removed his hat, giving a slight bow to the misses.

"Forgive me, Miss Holmes. It's lovely to meet you."

Mrs. Holmes gave a knowing smirk and a small nod and curtsy, taking Sherlock's elbow and looking up at him with the most loving eyes John had ever seen. Sherlock looked back at him and finished up their conversation, "We'll finalize the details tomorrow evening. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a hanging to attend in Wandsworth. I'd hate for them to start without us."

"Hanging?" John asked.

"He takes a professional interest." Miss Holmes offered.

"I also play the violin and smoke a pipe. I presume that's not a problem." Sherlock said.

"Uh, no, well…"

"And you're clearly acclimatized to never getting to the end of a sentence. We'll get along splendidly. Tomorrow evening, 7:00 then." He was about to lead himself and his wife out of the morgue but he stopped just before rounding the corner, turning back to John, "Oh, and the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."

"Good evening, gentlemen." Miss Holmes curtseyed and Sherlock led them away, out of the morgue, leaving John completely in shock and very confused. He looked to Mike for some answers, but all he did was shake his head.

"Yes, he's always been like that.

* * *

Outside, Sherlock took his position on the street side of the sidewalk with Charlotte on his left arm, calling a horse cab to take them to Wandsworth.

"Is that going to be the new tenant at Baker Street?" Miss Holmes asked as her husband helped her into the carriage as it came to a stop in front of them. He climbed in behind her and closed the door, instructing the carriage driver where to go before settling in beside her.

"It is, yes."

"Oh, he seems lovely."

The carriage took off and Sherlock adjusted his coat, settling in for the ride as he spoke, "He is. His company will be pleasurable. All though, his leg injury is all in his head. We shall have to work on that."

_Over the many years it has been my privilege to recall the exploits of my remarkable friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes along with his wife, the Miss Charlotte Holmes, it has sometimes been difficult to choose which of his many cases to set before my readers. Some are still too sensitive to recount, whilst others are too recent in the mind of the public. But in all our many adventures together, no case pushed my friend to such mental and physical extremes as that of_ _The Abominable Bride_ _._


	2. Chapter 2

_A few years later…_

"Here."

A black, single-horse carriage slowed to a halt as John called out to the newspaperman from one of the most popular newspaper stands: the _Strand_. Baker Street was just around the corner but Dr Watson's newest piece, _The Blue Carbuncle_ had just recently been published and he leaned out of the window to inquire to the loud, and rather large man, about its success.

"Very popular, Dr Watson." He said, tucking his stack of newspapers under his arm, "Is there going to be a proper murder next month?"

John furrowed his eyebrows and chuckled, "I'll have a word with the criminal classes."

"If you wouldn't mind."

John tipped his hat and signaled for the carriage to pull off, ready to be back in the comforts of the Baker Street flat, but the look on the crier's face stopped him, watching the man's eyes grow large in realization and a big smile on his face, "Is that him? Is he in there?"

John huffed in pain, his features contorting into a grimace and he took a hissing breath before answering, "Oh! No. No, no, not at all. Uh, good day to you."

The driver called to the horse to get him trotting again and they pulled off before the man could make them any later than they already were. They could hear him calling out a Christmas greeting to Mr Holmes and John turned back to one of his companions, giving him a nasty look for kicking him. Sherlock was staring out the other window, smoking his pipe and obviously not paying him any attention. Charlotte giggled from the seat across from them and John looked at her but said nothing. After spending so much time with Sherlock he was used to this kind of behavior and found that it was best to say nothing.

Their carriage stopped in front of 221B and Sherlock swung the door open. Fresh snow was falling and leaving a soft, white dust over the ground. It was nearly Christmas and more people than usual were out hustling and bustling around. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had to make a path through the crowd to greet them as they gathered their things from the carriage.

"Mr. Holmes." She said, "I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home."

"I hardly knew myself, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock replied, turning to lend a hand to his wife as she stepped out onto the street, "That's the trouble with dismembered country squires. They're notoriously difficult to schedule."

Charlotte rolled her eyes and excitedly reached out to her landlady and dear friend. She kissed her on the cheek and made short, very polite chat before her ears tuned in to little Archie's voice talking to Dr Watson.

"What's in there?" he asked, referring to one of the luggage pieces that the Doctor was carrying.

"Pardon me," Miss Holmes excused herself and placed her hands on Archie's shoulders, "Never you mind, now in you go."

John nodded his thanks while Sherlock paid the cab driver and they all headed inside and out of the cold.

"Did you catch a murderer, Mr. Holmes?" Archie asked.

"Caught the murderer, still looking for the legs." Sherlock replied, "I think we'll call it a draw."

"And I noticed you've published another of your stories, Dr Watson." Mrs Hudson spoke.

"Yes, did you enjoy it?" John said, a proud smile plastered on his face until the Mrs Hudson replied with a short 'no'. His brow furrowed and he closed the door behind him once everyone was inside, questioning his landlady. She seemed very upset.

"I never enjoy them." She admitted. When he questioned her further she gave an exasperated sigh as if what she was about to say was a well-known fact, "Well, I never say anything, do I? According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfast."

Sherlock helped his wife out of her coat, hanging his and hers on the rack before making his way in to the foyer, sifting through the mail while the Doctor and the landlady had their squabble.

"Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking," he placed his coat and hat on the rack next to Mr. and Miss Holmes', "Your function."

"My what?"

"Don't feel singled out, Mrs Hudson. I'm hardly in the dog one." Sherlock pouted.

"I don't think I'm in it at all." Miss Holmes put in. Mrs Hudson squeaked in astonishment but both ladies were ignored when the Doctor realized Sherlock had downgraded his work by not calling it by its proper title.

"The dog one?" Dr Watson inquired.

"I'm your landlady, not a plot device." Mrs. Hudson said sternly. Though she wasn't actually being heard as Dr Watson's attention was now on Sherlock, apparently upset that his friend didn't remember the title of one of his stories from the papers.

"Do you mean _The Hound of Baskervilles?_ " he called up the stairs after Sherlock but there was no reply.

"And you make the room so drab and dingy." Mrs. Hudson continued to sulk and Charlotte put her arm around her shoulders to comfort her.

"Oh, blame it on the illustrator. He's out of control!" John argued, "I've had to grow this moustache just so people would recognize me."

He headed upstairs with one of the suitcases that they had brought back with them from the case and Mrs. Hudson sighed in defeat. She and Charlotte exchanged a look, both of them shaking their heads. Charlotte was about to say something about the men not listening to them when her husband called down the stairs in a very aggravated voice.

"Mrs. Hudson! There is a woman in my sitting room, and it is not my wife!" he called, his voice getting louder as he got closer to the stairs, "Is it intentional?"

Charlotte looked to the landlady with questioning eyes as the little old lady called back up in a loud whisper, "She's a client. Said you were out, insisted on waiting."

Sherlock looked back at the woman and held out his hand, "Miss Holmes,"

With one last nod to her friend, Charlotte left Mrs Hudson and started up the stairs, taking her husband's hand and allowing him to help her up the last two steps. She stood just inside their sitting room, taking a good look at their new client and forming her own opinions about the newcomer. John offered her a seat but the lady gave no reply. Charlotte joined the Doctor and gave the lady a polite smile to which she gave a kind nod. Miss Charlotte thought she recognized her, but she was shroud in all black, a think veil hiding her face. She didn't say a word as John pulled one of the desk chairs out for her.

"Didn't you ask her what she wanted?" Sherlock called down again.

"You ask her!" Mrs. Hudson called back.

"What didn't you ask her?"

"How could I? What with me not talking and everything!"

Sherlock gave a deep, aggravated sigh and started in to the living room, approaching his roommate, "For God's sake, give her some lines, she's perfectly capable of starving us."

He took his mark with a genuinely fake smile in front of the client, letting his arms hang stiffly at his sides, "Good afternoon, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"He's right, you know." Charlotte whispered to Dr Watson with a sly smile and started towards Mr Holmes as he spoke.

"This is my wife, Miss Charlotte Holmes." She nodded again, "And this is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson. You may speak freely in front of him as he barely understands a word."

"Holmes!" Dr Watson warned but Sherlock ignored him.

"However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations."

John rolled his eyes at his friend's inability to resist a touch of the drama as he took his wife's hand and led her to his chair on the other side of the room, spouting out observations about the client at record speed, "You have an impish sense of humour, which currently you are deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish. You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavoury companion of dubious morals. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible."

"Good lord, Holmes!" Dr Watson interrupted. Sherlock looked at him before taking a deep breath to continue.

"All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume."

John furrowed his eyebrows, "Her perfume?"

"Yes, her perfume which brings insight to me and disaster to you." Sherlock sighed, his arms crossed, dreading the moment that was about to happen. He turned back to his wife who was sitting there with her mouth agape. She obviously had an idea of who it was and got to her feet.

"How so?" asked John.

"Because I recognized it and you did not."

Charlotte stood in front of the client and hesitantly pulled the lady's veil down to reveal the client's face.

"Mary." Dr Watson spat her name with such disgust Miss Holmes felt offended, but Mary didn't seem to mind. She spoke his name with calmness and confidence as Sherlock took a seat in his chair.

"Why in God's name are you pretending to be a client?" John said.

"Because I could think of no other way to see my husband." She smiled, "Husband."

There was a moment of silence and Miss Holmes looked between the two, unsure of what to do. She took a deep breath through her nose, held it there for a moment, then started for the kitchen, "I'll put on some tea."

* * *

"It was an affair of international intrigue."

"It was a murdered country squire."

John sighed, "Nevertheless, matters were pressing."

"I don't mind you going, my darling, I mind you leaving me behind!"

"But what could you do?"

"Oh, what do you do?" Mary retorted, "Except, wander around, taking notes, looking surprised."

John threw his hands up in defeat and turned away from his wife, though she continued to talk to his back nonetheless. She was determined that he would hear her out if it was the last thing she did.

"Miss Charlotte goes with you to all sorts of places and it's not a problem, but I'm always left behind!"

"Enough!"

Both of them jumped at Sherlock's booming voice, shutting them up rather fast. He had let them have their little domestic long enough, playing his violin and tuning them out but his ears perked up at his wife's name and that was where he drew the line. His reasoning for bringing his wife with him wherever he could were his and his wife's business, no one else's. He folded his hands in front of him, his fingers still lightly gripping his violin as he spoke, "The stage is set, the curtain rises. We are ready to begin."

"Begin what?" Mary questioned, her husband shoving his hands in his pockets next to her.

"Sometimes to solve a case, one must first solve another."

"Well, you have a case then? A new one?" Dr Watson inquired.

"An old one, very old. I shall have to go deep."

"Deep into what?"

"Myself." He paused, being as dramatic as he possibly could. The Watsons stared on, trying to wrap their brains around what he was trying to say but both of them jumped when he suddenly turned back to the door, "Lestrade, do stop loitering by the door and come in."

Sherlock went to go sit in his chair as the Detective Inspector threw the door open with staggering breaths, "How did you know it was me?"

"Regulation trend is unmistakable. Lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson."

"Oh, yeah, I just came up. Mrs Hudson didn't seem to be talking."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached for his pipe, "I fear she has branched into literary criticism by means of satire. It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady."

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

Everyone's attention was brought to the stairs where Miss Charlotte was about to turn the corner, almost running into Detective Inspector Lestrade. She was drying her hands on a towel, probably having just come from helping Mrs. Hudson with the dishes; an easy deduction.

"Sherlock?" she repeated before noticing Lestrade, "Oh! Detective Inspector, I'm so sorry!"

"Oh, no, Miss Holmes, no need to apologize!" he took his hat off and rested it on his chest, feeling awkward in the quiet room. Charlotte cleared her throat to break the silence, repeating her reasoning for her presence.

"I heard you shouting, Sherlock. Are you alright?"

Sherlock had just finished filling his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper that was set on his side table next to his chair, flicking the access off of his fingers before he spoke, "Oh, yes, darling. Perfectly fine. The Watsons were having a domestic and I couldn't concentrate anymore."

Charlotte and Lestrade peered over at John and Mary and the two were looking everywhere but at their friends or each other. Sherlock blinked awkwardly before taking a deep breath to speak again, changing the subject, "What brings you here in your off-duty hours, Lestrade?"

Lestrade thought for a few moments before he replied, "How do you know I'm off duty?"

"Well, since your arrival, you've addressed over 40% of your remarks to my decanter. Charlotte, would you please give the Inspector what he so clearly wants."

"Of course." Miss Holmes gave Lestrade a kind smile and started for the table full of glass jars and glasses, setting out one glass in front of her so that she could pour the Detective Inspector some whiskey.

"So, Lestrade," John started, watching Miss Holmes hand the man his drink, "What could we do for you?"

"Oh, I'm not here on business, I just thought I'd drop by." He answered.

"Social call?"

"Yeah, of course, just to wish you the compliments of the season."

There was an awkward pause and everyone looked at him expectantly.

"Merry Christmas." He finally said. There were staggered replies from everyone in the room and before everyone could even finish, Sherlock was pushing things right along.

"Thank God that's over. Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door, but embarrasses you to relate?"

Lestrade took a swig of his drink, an obvious chill going down his spine, "Who said anything happened?"

"You did. By every means short of actual speech."

Lestrade finished his drink and before he or Sherlock could say anything else, Dr Watson stopped them, "Holmes, you have misdiagnosed."

Sherlock looked up at his wife, who had joined him next to his chair, with a smile before settling in and waving his hand towards his friend, "Then correct me, Doctor."

"He didn't want a drink," John took the empty glass from the Inspector and tipped it over to put emphasis on his words, "he needed one. He's not embarrassed, he's afraid."

The Inspector did not deny it and Sherlock merely smirked, clearly impressed. Be-it only slightly, but still impressed, "My Boswell is learning. They do grow up so fast. Watson, restore the courage of Scotland Yard. Inspector, do sit down."

Dr Watson stalked off to grab the Inspector another drink as Lestrade took a seat at one of the desk chairs, "I'm not afraid, exactly."

"Fear is wisdom in the face of danger. It is nothing to be ashamed of. From the beginning then."

Lestrade accepted the drink from Dr Watson and everyone settled in to listen to the Inspector's story.


	3. Chapter 3

"A moment."

Sherlock held up his hand, bringing everyone's attention to himself. Detective Inspector Lestrade had been recounting the strange happening that brought him to the Holmes' sitting room. He described a crazed woman, dressed in a wedding gown, veil and all, atop a balcony shooting at the people down below with a gun in each hand. Witnesses say she was shouting 'You!' with every bullet she shot. Lestrade stopped speaking, looking at the Consulting Detective curiously.

"When was this?" Sherlock asked.

"Yesterday morning." Lestrade answered.

"The bride's face, how is it described?"

The Detective Inspector took to his notes, scribbled in a little leather-bound notepad that he had been recounting the story from. He flipped back a few pages and quoted from the words written there: "White as death, mouth like a crimson wound."

Sherlock suddenly stood and paced to the other side of the room, his brain working a million miles a minute and taking in every bit of data that he could, "Poetry or truth?"

Lestrade glanced around the room, "Well, many would say they're the same thing."

"Yes, idiots. Poetry or truth?"

"I saw her face myself, afterwards."

Sherlock turned to him, "After what?"

"Well…"

He continued his tale, finishing with the bride finally swallowing a bullet and blowing the back of her head clean off. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Really, Lestrade. A woman blows her own brains out in public and you need help identifying the guilty party." He returned to his seat and replaced his pipe to his mouth, "I feel Scotland Yard has reached a new low."

Lestrade shook his head, "That's not why I'm here."

"I surmise."

"What was her name?" John interrupted, "The bride?"

"Emelia Ricoletti." Lestrade said, "Yesterday was her wedding anniversary. The police, of course, were called. And her body taken to the morgue."

"Well I should hope so." Charlotte commented.

"Standard procedure. Why are you telling us what may be presumed?" Sherlock asked.

The Detective Inspector finished off his second drink and took a deep breath, "'Cause of what happened next."

"Well, do go on." Miss Charlotte urged. She always loved a good story. That's why she always enjoyed reading Dr Watson's stories in the papers or listening to her husband tell his own stories. Lestrade nodded and settled back into his chair.

"Lime House. Just a few hours later. Thomas Ricoletti, Emelia Ricoletti's husband, stumbles out of a pub."

"Presumably on his way to the morgue to identify her remains." Miss Charlotte noted. Lestrade nodded.

"As it turned out, he was saved the trip. Witnesses say a carriage stopped him just as he was leaving and a women, also dressed in a wedding gown with her face covered by the veil, stepped out and started singing. She had a gun aimed at him and she was babbling on about their wedding day. He asked who she was and she pulled up her veil - it was none other than his dead wife, Emelia Ricoletti. They spoke only a few words before she shot him dead and disappeared into the mist, just as the police showed up."

"Till death us do part. Twice, in this case." Sherlock said, smiling at his own joke. Though in looking up at his wife he got rid of his grin. She obviously wasn't a fan of his humor on the matter.

"The poor boy who showed up to the scene didn't know what to do. She got away with it."

"Extraordinary." John breathed.

"Impossible." His wife followed.

"Terrifying." Miss Holmes said. Her husband stood and she took his seat, feeling faint.

"Superb." Sherlock said, "Suicide a street theatre, Murder by Corpse. Lestrade, you're spoiling us. Watson, Miss Holmes, your hats and coats."

"Where are we going?" Charlotte asked, following in her husband's footsteps with Dr Watson just behind.

"To the morgue, my dear. There's not a moment to lose. Which one can so rarely say of the morgue."

Sherlock winked at his wife and she smiled, letting him help her into her coat before getting in to his own. Dr Watson smiled at the two and adjusted his own coat when Mary spoke to him, "And am I just to sit here?"

"Not at all. My dear, we'll be hungry later." He replied, tapping her chin lightly with his knuckle before following the Holmes' down the stairs, "Holmes, just one thing, tweeds in a morgue?"

"Needs must when the devil drives, Watson."

The three of them headed down the stairs, leaving Miss Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade alone in the Holmes' living room. They were outside and Sherlock was about to call a cab when Charlotte suddenly remembered her purse. She apologized profusely for being such a fuss and hustled back inside to grab it, passing Lestrade on the way out, who nodded his head to her before replacing his hat. Mrs Hudson was upstairs talking to Mary, and Charlotte stopped just outside to eavesdrop.

"What a life those gentlemen lead." Mrs Hudson was saying.

"Yes." Mary replied dully, "Those _gentlemen_."

"Oh, never you mind. Did they take Miss Charlotte with them?"

"They did, yes."

"Oh, that girl. I tell you it's not proper for a lady to be gallivanting around with a couple of gentlemen. It's simply not a women's place."

"Mm. Yes. She's allowed to go everywhere with them, yet I am not!" Mary huffed.

"It's always been like this. I don't even remember a time when Mr and Miss Holmes weren't together. He loves her so, and he simply cannot be without her. I must admit," Mrs Hudson leaned in a bit and spoke in a whisper, "it is very romantic."

She giggled and Mary forced a smile, obviously still upset about being left behind. Mrs Hudson was about to leave her alone, but she stopped and pulled an envelope from her waistband, "Oh! Almost forgot, that came for you."

Out in the hall, Miss Charlotte stood looking at the floor with her lips pursed in thought. She felt guilt for not bringing Mary along, but she was only obeying her husband's wishes, just as she said she would do the day she and Sherlock took their vows, and just as Mary was doing now. Though she would be lying if she said that she wasn't happy going along with him everywhere. She felt such love and safety when she was with her husband, who wouldn't want to be with the person they loved as much as they could? She took a deep breath and almost jumped out of her skin when Mary spoke.

"Charlotte, what are you doing here? I thought you were going with Mr Holmes and my husband?"

Miss Watson stood in front of her, bringing her out of her thoughts. Flustered and embarrassed for having been caught eavesdropping she grabbed her purse just inside the sitting room and bowed her head apologetically, stumbling over her words as her husband called for her from downstairs. She gave Mary a swift goodbye and hurried down the steps. Sherlock and Dr Watson had a cab waiting with Detective Inspector Lestrade and Miss Charlotte apologized again. Sherlock was watching her sternly, ready to get on with the case but upon noticing his wife's troubled features his face softened and he stopped her when she reached for his helping hand in to the carriage. She looked up at him confused and blinked. That was the thing about Miss Holmes. She was a tough old bird, but she was just as fragile. Easily upset about the most trivial of things, though they obviously weren't trivial to her.

"Is everything alright, Miss Holmes?" Sherlock asked, obviously concerned. His wife simply smiled back at him and gave a soft nod.

"Yes, I'm so sorry to have kept you gentlemen waiting. It's not very polite, I know," she said.

"Please don't fret, Miss Holmes. It's quite alright. We didn't have to wait long." The Detective Inspector soothed. He always treated her with such kindness and respect, and Charlotte knew it was party because of the reputation she and her husband had. Most knew not to disrespect Miss Holmes, or face the wrath of the very protective Mr Holmes. Though even with this knowledge, she still rather liked the Detective Inspector, and she nodded her head to him as her husband guided her into the carriage. Once she was safely inside and he climbed in after her, they started off on a new case and a new adventure.

* * *

"Who's on mortuary duty?" Sherlock asked after a short silence.

"You know who." Lestrade replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Always him."

They reached the morgue and Sherlock was immediately angered by the sight of the body they were in search of, chained to the table and locked with a heavy padlock.

"It's for everyone's safety." A nasally voice from across the room approached them and it wasn't hard to tell that Sherlock was already irritated by the man before he had even really said anything. John looked sideways at the man and pulled the sheet back to reveal the corpse of who Miss Charlotte guessed was Emelia Ricoletti.

"This woman is dead." Dr Watson observed, "Half her head is missing. She's not a threat to anyone!"

"Tell that to her husband, he's under a sheet over there."

"Whatever happened in Lime House last night, I think we can safely assume it wasn't the work of a dead woman." Sherlock stated.

"Stranger things have happened."

Sherlock took a deep breath, forcing as much sass into his statement as he could possibly muster, "Such as?"

"Well…" the man, Mr Anderson struggled to think of anything stranger than this specific case, stumbling over his words under the scrutinizing stare of the Sherlock Holmes, "Strange things."

"You're speaking like a child." John said.

"This is clearly man's work. Where is he?" Sherlock inquired.

Just as he spoke the sound of the gate to the morgue opening behind them caught all of their attention. As if on cue, the very man Sherlock was inquiring about came around the corner. He was a short man, with an unusual sounding voice, but he was good at what he did so most tolerated his uniqueness. Some were even afraid of him. He turned and addressed Sherlock only with a very serious face, "Sherlock."

"Hooper." Sherlock replied.

"You, back to work!" Dr Hooper shooed away Mr Anderson and returned his attention to Mr Holmes and company, "So? Come to astonish us with your magic tricks, I suppose."

"Is there anything to which you would like to draw my attention?"

"Nothing at all, Mr Holmes. You may leave anytime you like." Dr Hooper hissed. Dr Watson eyed him suspiciously and Miss Holmes suddenly felt very unwelcome. She always did feel uneasy around him.

"Dr Hooper, I asked Mr Holmes to come here. Cooperate. That's an order." Lestrade commanded, with more authority than Miss Holmes had ever really heard come from the Detective Inspector. Dr Hooper took a deep breath in through the nose, obviously unwilling to help but having no choice on the matter, he went on to explain his findings on studying the corpse.

"There are two features of interest, as you are always saying in Dr Watson's stories."

"I never say that." Sherlock argued.

"Oh, you do, actually," his wife admitted, "quite a lot."

He looked down at her, his eyes full of doubt and his eyebrow cocked, but she didn't look at him. She was fully invested in what Dr Hooper had to say, so Sherlock said nothing, allowing Dr Hooper to continue.

"First of all," he said, "this is definitely Emelia Ricoletti. She has been categorically identified. Beyond a doubt, it is her."

"Then who was that in Lime House last night?" Miss Charlotte questioned.

"That was also Emelia Ricoletti."

"It can't have been her." John said, "She was dead, she was here."

"She was positively identified by her own husband seconds before he died. Had no reason to lie, could hardly have been mistaken."

"The cabby knew her, too." Lestrade confirmed, "There's no question it's her."

"But she can't have been in two places at the same time, can she?" Charlotte asked.

"No, Miss Holmes, one place is strictly the limit for the recently deceased." Her husband said patiently.

"Holmes," Dr Watson snapped, an idea suddenly forming in his head, "could it have been twins?"

Miss Charlotte raised her eyebrows in agreement, looking to her husband for confirmation.

"No."

Her eyebrows fell into a deep furrow.

"Why not?" John said.

"Because it's never twins."

"Emelia was not a twin, nor did she have any sisters. She had one older brother who died four years ago." Lestrade explained. But John shook his head, unconvinced.

"Maybe it was a secret twin."

"A what?" Miss Charlotte asked, a giggle threatening to escape her lips.

"A secret twin." John eyed Sherlock, trying to get him to consider his concept only to be looked upon like the idiot he sounded like, "A twin that nobody knows about. This whole thing could have been planned."

"Since the moment of conception, how breathtakingly prescient of her. It is never twins, Watson!" Sherlock turned away, feeling his IQ drop the longer he looked at his friend.

"Then what's your theory?"

"More to the point, what's your problem?" Sherlock turned to the Detective Inspector who was studying the body of Emelia Ricoletti with uncharacteristic silence. He turned to the Detective and blinked.

"I don't understand,"

"Why were you so frightened? Nothing so far has justified your assault on my decanter. And why have you allowed a dead woman to be placed under arrest?"

"Ah, that would be the other feature of interest." Dr Hooper spoke up. He took Emelia's dead hand and lifted it for Mr Holmes to see. Her index finger was coated in thick blood and the Detective immediately bent down to get a closer look.

"The smear of blood on her finger. That could have happened any number of ways." John said.

"Indeed." He set her hand down and leaned against the table, "There's one other thing. It wasn't there earlier."

"And neither was that." Lestrade brought their attention to the wall behind them, all of them turning around and coming around to the other side of the table where Emelia Ricoletti's body lay. Lestrade shined a light on the stone where "YOU" was written in blood and Miss Holmes took a frightened breath, retreating to the shelter of her husband's embrace. He was deep in thought, but Sherlock didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around his frightened wife, mumbling quietly to himself.

"Gun in the mouth, bullet through the brain, back of the head blown clean off. How could he survive?"

Miss Charlotte looked up at his misuse of pronouns and glanced around at everyone's confused faces to make sure she'd heard him right before correcting him, "She, you mean, Mr Holmes?"

"I'm sorry." He seemed distant and she leaned back, observing his expression with his hand still lingering on her waist.

"Not he, she." She repeated.

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Mr Holmes, are you well?" she asked, "Sherly?"

He finally shook his daze and looked around the room, tightening his grip on his wife for support as he spoke, "Well, thank you all for a fascinating case. I'll send you a telegram when I've solved it. Watson, Miss Holmes."

He started out of the room, placing Charlotte's hand in the crook of his arm and allowing his hand to rest on her fingers. She didn't question and followed her husband out into the streets of London. Dr Watson lingered behind a few moments more, leaving Sherlock and Charlotte on the sidewalk alone. Charlotte turned to her husband with a concerned aura about her. He wasn't looking at her, but he was gripping onto her hand as if it were life or death. She pursed her lips and leaned closer to him.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?" she said. He finally looked down at her, reassuring her just as Dr Watson came outside to meet them. Sherlock kissed the back of his wife's hand and called a cab to take them home.

"Well, Holmes," Dr Watson said once they were all inside the cab, "surely you must have some theory."

"Not yet." Sherlock replied, "These are deep waters, Watson, deep waters. And I shall have to go deeper still."


	4. Chapter 4

_It was not for several months that we were to pick up the threads of this strange case again. And then, under very unexpected circumstances._

"Five of them now? All the same, everyone of 'em." Lestrade said, watching Sherlock pace back and forth in his study, large book in hand.

"Hush, please." Sherlock commanded, "This is a matter of supreme importance."

"What is?"

"The obliquity of the ecliptic, I have to understand it."

"What is it?"

"I don't know. I'm still trying to understand it."

"I thought you understood everything."

"Of course, not. That would be an appalling waste of brain space. I specialize."

"And what's so important about this?"

Lestrade was obviously starting to get on Sherlock's last nerve as he lashed out when he spoke next, "What's so important about five boring murders?"

"They're not boring. Five men dead. Murdered in their own homes, rice on the floor, like at a wedding, and the word 'YOU' written in blood on the wall!"

No response.

"It's her. It's the bride. Somehow, she's risen again."

"Oh, hello, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade looked up, getting to his feet when he realized Sherlock's misses had entered the room. She had a tray of tea for herself and Sherlock, setting it down on top of a few books stacked on her husband's desk.

"Good morning, Miss Holmes."

"Good morning. I had no idea you were in or I would have grabbed another cup."

"No, it's quite alright, don't upset yourself. I was only stopping by for a moment."

"Solved it." Sherlock said, suddenly. He turned another page in his book and Lestrade looked at him dumbfounded.

"Solved what?"

"The case. Emelia Ricoletti, I've solved it already."

"You can't have solved it!"

"Of course, I've solved it. It's perfectly simple. The incident of the mysterious Miss Ricoletti, the killer from beyond the grave has been widely reported in the popular press. Now people are disguising their own dull little murders as the work of a ghost to confuse the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard. There you are, solved." He slammed his book closed and set it on the desk in front of him, "Pay Mrs Hudson a visit on your way out. She likes to feel involved."

There was a silence and Miss Charlotte handed Sherlock his tea. He took it and immediately started sipping at it, never taking his eyes off of the Detective Inspector. Charlotte took a seat in Sherlock's desk chair and sipped her own tea, looking between the two in the awkwardness.

"You sure?" Lestrade finally said.

"Certainly. Go away. Miss Holmes, I'm ready. Your hat and boots. We have an important appointment."

"Oh, no, no, no." Charlotte stood, adjusting her skirt and reaching for her husband's coat, "I will not be going with you today. You're on your own this time."

Sherlock looked absolutely shattered, "What? Why?"

"Well, for one you're going to the old Diogenes Club, a gentlemen's club if you recall. And you're also meeting your brother and I still disagree with your little gambler's bet. It's perfectly revolting."

"Now Charlotte, my brother is perfectly within his power to die early."

"No, you're right, I know you're right. That still does not mean I want to hear it. And as I said, it is a gentlemen's club, so I've telegrammed Dr Watson. He'll be meeting you there."

Miss Holmes led her husband towards the stairs with Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock gave a confused look around the room, "Yes, where is the Doctor?"

"Didn't Dr Watson move out a few months ago?" Lestrade questioned.

"Yes, he did. He moved in with his wife, remember, darling?" Charlotte reminded. Sherlock gave an offhanded look of remembrance and let his wife help him into his coat. Lestrade nodded his head to Miss Holmes and started down the stairs to wait for his companion, stopping just outside the Holmes' living room. Sherlock leaned down to kiss his wife, both of them smiling into the kiss thinking no one else was watching. Lestrade felt a tad guilty, but at the same time he was seeing what no one else, besides Dr Watson and Miss Hudson saw, maybe even Mary. But the Holmes' whole entire relationship had always been a mystery. It was as if there was never a time when the two of them weren't married. Charlotte E. Holmes, nee Blakely, famously known as the only woman who could handle the infamous sleuth, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade chuckled at the moment of intimacy he was watching between the two, unable to wipe the smile off of his face at the sight of such a relationship. The two were talking low, probably aware that he was still present, but uncaring in the presence of each other. The exchanged one more kiss and Lestrade made his way outside, stopping by to bid Mrs Hudson goodbye before heading back to Scotland Yard.

* * *

"Miss Holmes!"

Charlotte peered down the stairs when her landlady called up to her, announcing that they had a visitor, most likely a client. Charlotte approved and had Mrs Hudson show the lady up to the Holmes' flat, offering her a seat and putting the tea on to boil. Sherlock and Dr Watson were still out meeting Mycroft, but Charlotte was perfectly happy entertaining a guest, even if she was a client. Charlotte loved Mrs Hudson but apart from Mary, who was always busy these days it seemed, Charlotte never got to speak with her own sex much. She and the client, Lady Carmichael, chatted over tea for a long while before they heard the front door open and the familiar sound of her Sherlock's and Dr Watson's voices drifted up from the ground floor. Charlotte excused herself and met her husband halfway up the stairs, warning him of the client sitting in their sitting room. He seemed to have been expecting her and led his wife back into the room, introducing themselves before settling in to listen to what Lady Carmichael had to say.

"Mr Holmes, I have come here for advice." She began.

"That is easily got." Sherlock said.

"And help."

"Not always so easy."

"Something has happened, Mr Holmes. Something…unusual and…terrifying."

"Then you are in luck."

Lady Carmichael huffed, unbelieving in Sherlock's words, "'Luck'."

"Those are my specialisms. This is really very promising."

"Darling." Charlotte warned. She smiled at their guest in apology and Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Please, do tell us, what has so distressed you?"

"Well, I…I thought long and hard as to what to do, but then it occurred to me that my husband was an acquaintance of your brother and that perhaps through him…" She paused, having a hard time finding her words, "The fact is I'm not sure this comes within your purview, Mr Holmes."

"No?" Charlotte perked up.

"Lord help me…I think it may be a matter for a priest."

Sherlock, Charlotte, and Dr Watson exchanged glances but allowed Lady Carmichael to finish her story.

"My husband and I were sitting having lunch with the children. He had been teasing me about my leisurely activities when our servant brought him a telegram, or at least, that's what I had thought it was. But when he opened it, all of the color drained from his face. Curious, I asked him what was in the envelope but he remained silent. I sent the children out of the room and carefully took the note from my husband's hand, pouring its contents into my own. Thinking back, I feel guilty about it, but I laughed when five orange pips fell into my hand. When I asked him what it meant, he only said that it meant 'death'.

"He tried to compose himself, reassuring me that it was nothing but when I commented on how pale he looked but he only grew violent and stormed out of the room."

"Oh, dear. That sounds dreadfully awful." Charlotte said.

"Did you keep the envelope?" Sherlock asked.

"My husband destroyed it." Lady Carmichael answered, "But it was blank. No name or address of any kind."

"Tell me, has Sir Eustace spent time in America?"

Lady Carmichael shook her head, "No."

"Not even before your marriage?"

"Well, not to my knowledge."

Sherlock seemed unconvinced, "Pray, continue with your fascinating narrative."

"Well, that incident took place last Monday morning. It was two days later on the Wednesday that my husband first saw her."

Miss Charlotte was suddenly very fidgety and Dr Watson looked up from his notes, "Who?"

Lady Carmichael took a deep, shuddering breath and Miss Charlotte breathed in with fear. She had an idea about where this case was heading and she suddenly felt very anxious. She'd been afraid that this case would come back. Sherlock felt his wife's fear and brought her around to sit in the desk chair beside him while Lady Carmichael continued her story.

"It was late, and I'd woken up to an empty bed where Eustace usually slept. I got no reply so I got out of bed to search for him. I found him standing stiff by the window in our bedroom, staring out into the garden. I called out to him again but still nothing, so I reached out to him. When he turned to face me he looked white as a sheet, and he had been sobbing. He kept repeating that she had found him and that his sins had been found out. It was a very frightening sight. He shoved me into the window, asking me if I saw her, but I saw no one. When he looked out again he also saw nothing and he collapsed to the floor a broken man. He keeps so many secrets from me, I thought this might be another. When I asked again who it was, he only told me that it was The Bride."

"Oh God." Charlotte's heart was racing and Sherlock and Dr Watson looked at each other eagerly.

"And you saw nothing?" Sherlock said, making sure to clarify the Lady Carmichael's words.

"Nothing." She confirmed.

"Did you husband describe-?"

"Nothing." She cut him off, "Until this morning. I awoke again with my husband missing. I got out of bed and looked out the window do see him going into the hedges. I immediately ran down the stairs and out into the garden to go after him, calling out to him with no reply. I searched for what seemed like hours with no sign of him. I managed to take a blunder and cut my hand, that's when I heard her. That eerie singing. Her singing will haunt my dreams till I'm no longer of this earth.

"I followed her singing and found my husband standing shock-stiff, white as a ghost, in front of a women, dressed in a lace wedding gown. Her face was covered by the veil. When I asked who she was, she didn't say a word and merely cocked her head to one side. I turned my husband towards me, begging him to explain what was happening. All he said was that that woman, was Emelia Ricoletti."

Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. She was shaking and Sherlock thought he would lose his hand for how hard she was squeezing it. She'd never been so upset about a case before. Sure, things scared her, but not like this. He rubbed soothing circles on the back of her hand but continued listening to Lady Carmichael.

"The woman, the bride, Emelia Ricoletti, whatever you want to call her, she told my husband that he was going to die and started to lift her veil when my husband fell faint."

Charlotte brought her free hand to her mouth in horror, turning to her husband when he let go of her hand to bring his own hands together in thought. Dr Watson spoke, but Sherlock merely shushed him, though it was basically ignored as the Doctor continued talking in a scratchy whisper, "But Emelia Ricoletti, the bride."

"Well, you know the name?" Lady Carmichael asked, a hopeful tone in her voice.

"You must forgive Watson." Sherlock told her, "He has an enthusiasm for stating the obvious which borders on mania. May I ask, how is your husband this morning?"

"He refuses to speak about the matter. Obviously, I have urged him to leave the house."

"No, no, he must stay exactly where he is."

"Well, you don't think he's in danger?"

"Oh, no. Somebody definitely wants to kill him, but that's good for us. You can't set a trap without bait."

"My husband is not bait, Mr Holmes."

"No, but he could be if we play our cards right. Now, listen. You must go home immediately. My wife, Dr Watson and I will follow on the next train. There's not a moment to lose. See, Eustace is to die tonight."

"Mr Holmes!"

At his wife's offended voice he stopped. She apologized to Lady Carmichael, "You must forgive my husband. He has an enthusiasm for imitating machines which borders on mania." She leaned down to whisper in her husband's ear, "Remember what we talked about, my darling."

"Yes, well, we should probably avoid your husband's death, Lady Carmichael." Sherlock tried again.

"Definitely." Charlotte corrected.

"Definitely avoid that."


	5. Chapter 5

Lady Carmichael was sent on her way and Mr and Miss Holmes, along with Dr Watson, began to gather themselves so that they could catch the next train to the Carmichael estate. Once they boarded the train, alone in their seats, it was quiet. It was a very comfortable silence as Sherlock sat with his eyes closed, thinking of God knows what in that fantastic brain of his while Miss Charlotte sat with him, watching the scenery fly by out the window. John sat watching them, taking in the infamous couple and contemplating speaking and interrupting Sherlock's thinking. He lasted only a few more seconds before he could no longer stand the silence.

"You don't suppose-?" he started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No, I don't, and neither should you."

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter and I was about to laugh in your face."

Miss Charlotte giggled.

"But the bride, Holmes. Emelia Ricoletti, again, a dead woman walking the Earth." John argued.

"Please, don't remind me." Charlotte shuttered.

"Darling, there is no ghost." Sherlock reassured his wife before turning back to his companion, "Watson, you amaze me."

"I do?"

"Since when have you had any kind of imagination?"

The Doctor paused, choosing his words carefully before speaking, "Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict was some kind of gentlemen hero."

The Holmes' were quiet and Miss Charlotte nodded her head in a surprised agreement, "That was quite an achievement."

Sherlock sighed, unable to think of any proof that the Doctor was wrong, "Yes, now you come to mention it, that was quite impressive. You may, however, rest assured there are no ghosts in this world. Save for those we make for ourselves."

* * *

"Somnambulism."

Dr Watson and the Holmes' had arrived at the Carmichael residence and had been escorted to one of family's sitting rooms. Sherlock was pacing the carpet to look for clues and listen to the conversation his wife and the Doctor were having with Sir Eustace, Lady Carmichael's husband, hoping to get some information out of him. So far their luck was running thin.

"I beg your pardon?" Dr Watson questioned.

"I sleepwalk, that's all." He said, brushing it off as if it were nothing, "It's a common enough condition. I thought you were a doctor. The whole thing was a," he hesitated, "A bad dream."

The Doctor wasn't buying it, "Including the contents of the envelope you received."

Sir Eustace scoffed, "Well, that's a grotesque joke."

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's not the impression you gave your wife." Miss Charlotte was sat in one of the velvet lined chairs, remembering the look of horror on Lady Carmichael's face when she told them her tale. Sir Eustace glanced at Miss Holmes to take in her disapproving look. He felt the urge to roll his eyes but one look at Mr Holmes, who was famously protective of his wife and he simply settled for continuing the conversation in a civilized manor.

"She's an hysteric, prone to fancies." He said.

"No." Sherlock stated.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, no, she's not an hysteric. She's a highly intelligent woman of rare perception."

Sir Eustace seemed to laugh at Sherlock's observation, "My wife sees terror in an orange pip."

"Your wife can see worlds where no one else can see anything of value whatsoever."

"Can she really? And how do you deduce that, Mr Holmes?"

"She married you. I assume she was capable of finding a reason."

Dr Watson held back a smile and Charlotte put her fingers to her lips, clearing her throat to cover the chuckle that threatened to escape as Sir Eustace started for Mr Holmes with an angry look on his face. Sherlock didn't falter as the man charged at him, "I'll do my best to save your life tonight. But first, it would help if you would explain your connection to the Ricoletti case."

Sir Eustace stopped in his tracks and furrowed his eyebrows, "Ricoletti?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, "In detail, please."

Sir Eustace stuttered, "Never heard of her."

"Interesting, I didn't mention she was a woman. We'll show ourselves out. I hope to see you again in the morning. Miss Holmes."

Sherlock helped his wife to her feet and she snaked her arm around his offered elbow, walking out the way they had come in with Dr Watson in tow.

"You will not!" Sir Eustace called.

"Then sadly I shall be solving your murder. Good day."

The three exited the room and crossed the lobby towards the foyer. One of the Carmichael's servants approached them and Sherlock handed him a small note, "Will you see that Lady Carmichael receives this? Thank you, good afternoon."

"What was that?" Charlotte asked.

"Lady Carmichael will sleep alone tonight under the pretense of a violent headache, all the doors and windows of the house will be locked.

They reached the coat rack and the Doctor reached for his coat and scarf, "You think the spectre, uh, bride will attempt to lure Sir Eustace outside again?"

"Certainly." Sherlock helped his wife into her coat before grabbing his own, "Why else the portentous threat? 'This night you will die.'"

"But he won't follow her, surely?" Charlotte inquired.

"It's difficult to say quite what he'll do. Guilt is eating away at his soul."

"Guilt? About what?"

"Something in his past. The orange pips were a reminder."

"Not a joke?"

"Not at all, my darling. Orange pips are a traditional warning of avenging death originating in America. Sir Eustace knows this only too well, just as he knows why he is to be punished."

They finished bundling up for the harsh English cold, slipping their gloves over their hands as they headed outside to begin their journey back home to Baker Street. "Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti?" Dr Watson questioned.

"I presume." Sherlock replied, "We all have a past, Watson. Ghosts. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day. Sir Eustace knows he's a marked man. There's something more than murder he fears. He believes he is to be dragged to hell by the risen corpse of the late Mrs Ricoletti."

Miss Charlotte shuddered and Sherlock laid her hand in the crook of his arm, wrapping his hand around her fingers as Dr Watson took a deep breath, "That's a lot of nonsense, isn't it?"

"Oh, God, yes. Did you bring a revolver?"

"What good would that be against a ghost?"

"Exactly. Did you bring it?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Then, come, Watson, Miss Holmes, come." Sherlock replaced his hat to his head, "The game is afoot."

* * *

_Later that night…_

"Get down, for heaven's sake."

Dr Watson apologized, lowering himself onto the makeshift seat he'd made in one of the Carmichaels' greenhouses. They'd been sitting there for so long his body was beginning to cramp up and he was having a hard time getting comfortable. Sherlock, on the other hand was unnervingly still, watching the house that the Doctor has his back to.

"Is the lamp still burning?" Dr Watson asked.

Sherlock answered positively and it grew quiet between them; but not for long, considering Dr Watson's reputation. Sherlock's eyes moved when the lights in the house finally went out one by one, "There goes Sir Eustace. And Lady Carmichael. The house sleeps."

Dr Watson took a deep breath, shaking his head, "Good God, this is the longest night of my life."

"Have patience, Watson."

The Doctor took a watch from his pocket and glanced at it, "Only midnight, though." He replaced the watch and took another deep breath, "You know, it's rare for us to sit together like this."

"I should hope so. It's murder on the knees." Sherlock smiled at his joke and Dr Watson chuckled.

"Two old friends just talking, chewing the fat," he gave Sherlock a sideways glance, "Man to man."

Sherlock suddenly seemed uncomfortable.

"She is a remarkable woman." John tried again.

"Who?"

"Lady Carmichael."

"The fair sex is your department, Watson. I'll take your word for it."

"Well, you liked her, a woman of rare perception."

"And admirably high arches. I noticed them as soon as she stepped into the room."

"She's far too good for him."

"You think so?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows in genuine inquiry.

"No, you think so, I could tell."

"On the contrary, I have no view on the matter."

"Yes, you have."

Sherlock paused, "Marriage is not a subject upon which I dwell."

"But you're married."

"What's the matter with you this evening?"

"That watch that you're wearing, there's a photograph inside it. I glimpsed it once. I believe it is of Miss Charlotte."

"You didn't glimpse it. You waited till I had fallen sleep and look at it." Sherlock said through gritted teeth, "Besides, what's the matter with having a picture of my wife on my person?"

Dr Watson looked sheepish, "Yes, I did."

"You seriously thought I wouldn't notice?"

"Miss Charlotte."

"My wife, yes."

"A very nice photograph."

"Why are you talking like this?"

"I've just been thinking."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh, this should be good."

"Well, it's just that you rarely talk about your relationship."

"Am I expected to?"

"Why are you so determined to not talk about your relationship?"

"Are you quite well, Watson?"

"Is it such a curious question?"

"From a Viennese alienist, no. From a retired army surgeon, most certainly." Sherlock huffed, "Why is it anyone's business?"

"Holmes, against absolutely no opposition whatsoever other than your wife, I am your closest friend."

"I concede it."

"I am currently attempting to have a perfectly normal conversation with you."

"Please don't."

"Why won't you talk about it?"

"If you are referring to romantic _entanglement_ ," he gave his companion a look to convey the meaning of his words, "Which I rather fear you are, as I have often explained before, all emotion is abhorrent to me. It is the grit in a sensitive instrument. The crack in the lens."

"The crack in the lens. Yes." Watson sighed, massaging his temples in frustration.

"Well, there you are. You see, I've said it all before."

"No, I wrote all that. You're quoting yourself from _The Strand_ magazine."

"Well, exactly."

"Those are my words, not yours. What about your wife, hmm?"

"What about her?"

"Those stories are the version of you that I present to the public. The brain without a heart, the calculating machine. I write all of that, Holmes, and the readers lap it up, but I don't know believe it."

"Well, I have a good mind to write to your editor."

"You're a living, breathing man. You've lived a life, you have a past."

"A what?"

"Well, you must've had…"

"Had what?"

Dr Watson smirked, "You know."

"No."

The Doctor thought about his choice of word, "Experiences."

Sherlock suddenly understood where his companion was steering this conversation, "Pass me your revolver, I have a sudden need to use it."

"Damn it, Holmes, you are flesh and blood, you have feelings, you have a wife! You must have," he huffed, stumbling over his words in this most frustrating conversation, "Impulses."

Sherlock cringed and closed his eyes, speaking softly to himself, "Dear lord, I have never been so impatient to be attacked by a murderous ghost."

"As your friend, as someone who worries about you," he paused, "What made you like this?"

"Oh, Watson. Nothing made me." A noise from outside distracted him and he whipped his head toward the sound, "I made me. Made me?"

Dr Watson didn't seem to hear it, "Don't you want a family, Holmes? What about Miss Charlotte?"

Sherlock sighed, "Watson, I do not talk about these things because it is a distraction. Yes, I'm sure my wife would like a family. In fact, I know she would like to raise children of her own from my own observances. She is most distracting, she is the crack in my lens, and I absolutely love her."

Dr Watson stared on at the confession of his friend, silent for once, waiting for him to continue.

"She is the crack in my lens, but I don't mind, I continue using it anyway. She is most distracting in the best way possible. All emotion is abhorrent to me, except when it comes to my Charlotte. And, contrary to Mrs Hudson's belief, mine and my wife's…impulses are no one's business, in my opinion."

Dr Watson raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed as he sat back and took in everything his companion had just confessed to him. He let out a chuckle, about to give a reply when he saw it, cursing under his breath and recapturing Sherlock's attention. The Doctor was looking after something on his other side and he followed his gaze, unbelieving in what he was seeing. The ghost, the bride, appeared before them on the other side of the courtyard. The two men were silent a moment, trying to gather their thoughts and decide what to do. Dr Watson finally broke the silence, asking the present question that was lingering in the air: what were they to do?

Sherlock adopted a look of 'why-the-hell-not' and got to his feet, "Why don't we have a chat?"

Dr Watson looked confused but was quick to keep up with Sherlock who had taken off across the yard. He was yelling at the ghost in between panting breaths, attempting to start a literal conversation with who was supposedly the spirit of the late Mrs Ricoletti.

"It cannot be true, Holmes, it cannot." Dr Watson grabbed Sherlock's arm, panic clear in his words as the ghost disappeared into the shadows.

"No, it can't."

A scream could be heard in the distance behind them, a male voice, and the two of them were quick to turn to it, though their attention was soon brought to the shattering glass at the other end of the house. Thinking quickly, Sherlock ran for the closest door, testing the locks and confirming that the Carmichaels had followed instruction.

"That was a window breaking, wasn't it?" Dr Watson asked when Sherlock returned.

"There's only one broken window we need to concern ourselves with." Mr Holmes found a ground-level window and proceeded to shatter the glass, giving himself and the Doctor a way inside. They clambered in, one after the other and Sherlock lit a portable gas light he found on a nearby table, commanding Dr Watson to stay where he was. The Doctor objected but Sherlock argued back, "All the doors and windows to the house are locked. This is the only way out, I need you here."

"But the sound was so close, it had to be from this side of the house."

"Stay here!" He took the light and started down the hall, leaving Dr Watson alone in the deafly quiet darkness. There was a cold breeze coming from the open window behind him, the wind gushing through the hall without the glass to stop it from fluttering the drapes. The floor creaked and Dr Watson took a deep breath, pulling his revolver from its hiding place on his person, cocking it so that it was ready to fire. He took a few steps forward, breathing deep to calm his nerves and stopping halfway down the hall.

"You're human, I know that." He said, "You must be."

After a moment of silence, he set the gun down and reached for the matches on the table, lighting a candle that was there, "Little use us standing here in the dark. After all, this is the 19th century."

He lifted the candle and was met with a harsh wind, blowing the light out. He could have sworn he heard a woman scream and his pulse quickened. He relit the candle, this time picking up with revolver with the light, bringing it out in front of him so that he could see clearly. There was a person there, and after years of unfortunate reflexes, he almost shot them. Though startled, he regained himself and looked closer. To his surprise, it was a very familiar redhead that was standing in front of him.

"Miss Holmes?"


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock bounded up the stairs just as he heard a woman gasping. Picking up speed to reach the second level faster, the screaming filling his ears, he ran as fast as he could. He used the light to look for clues and as he followed the sound of the woman's screams the house's staff had started to wake, following in behind him as he finally come upon the source of the screams: Lady Carmichael, standing above a pool of blood in the carpet with tears streaming down her face. Sherlock looked her in the eye, shock apparent in his features.

"You promised to keep him safe," she sobbed, her maids wrapping their arms around her shaking shoulders, "You promised."

Sherlock took a deep breath and started back the way he came, following the trail of blood in the carpet up another set of stairs and down a thin hall. He shined his light down both sides, finding what he was hoping he wouldn't: the body of Sir Eustace Carmichael. He approached the body, turning it over to find the hilt of a very extravagant dagger sticking out of Sir Eustace's chest. He jumped back in surprise, his mind racing with deductions until the sound of a woman's scream, a familiar one at that, reached his ears, sending his mind reeling with fear as he took off back down the stairs, praying that she was okay.

* * *

"Miss Holmes?" Dr Watson said, "What are you doing here?"

It was true, Miss Charlotte Holmes stood in front of him, though he furrowed his eyebrows at the sight of her. Besides the fact that he was under the impression that she was staying back at the flat that she shared with Sherlock, her appearance was downright blood-chilling. She was white as a sheet and her eyes were glassed over, her hands trembling as she slowly lifted finger to point at him. Her breath was staggered, and he leaned closer to try and understand what she was attempting to tell him.

"Miss Holmes, I don't understand. What's wrong?"

She swallowed, a tear streaming down her face and she finally spoke in a terrified whisper, "Behind you."

That's when he felt it: the bone-chilling presence. He felt his blood run cold and the color drained from his face in the realization that Miss Holmes was not point _at_ him but _behind_ him as the hoarse voice of Emelia Ricoletti begun singing in his ear. He turned and saw the ghost of a woman dressed in a long, white wedding gown with the veil covering her face. She raised her hands, ready to pounce with her dead, rotting hands and her long fingernails sprouting from pale white fingertips. She screeched and Miss Charlotte let out a bloodcurdling scream as Dr Watson took off running. He dropped the candle by accident, grabbing Charlotte by the waist as he ran. He wanted as far away from the ghost as possible and as fast as possible, though with Miss Holmes' crippling fear it was hard to get her moving. He urged her forward and she tried to move as fast as she could, following Dr Watson down the long corridors. He turned to her, urging her to move faster through his heavy breathing until he backed right into something with a thud. He turned to find Mr Holmes standing with a half-terrified look of his own.

"She's there, she's down there." Dr Watson blurted. Mr Holmes heard him but his eyes were trained on his wife's figure, bringing her into his embrace to stop her ferocious trembling. He held her a moment, bringing her gaze up to meet his own and wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb.

"You're alright, I'm here." He whispered, almost inaudibly. He looked up at his companion, "Don't tell me you abandoned your post."

Dr Watson looked flabbergasted at Sherlock's priorities, "What? Holmes, she's there, I saw her, your wife saw her. Why is your wife even here? It's not safe!"

A tinge of regret flashed across Mr Holmes eyes and he bent down to his now traumatized wife, holding her face in his hands. He lingered there for only a moment before apologizing and asking her to remain where she was. He took off in the direction his wife and Dr Watson had just came and she called out to him, begging to not be left alone just as one of the Carmichael's maids approached her. She jumped, but welcomed the embrace once she realized it wasn't the ghost, allowing the woman to comfort her until her husband returned a few moments later, fuming with anger and reaching for his wife.

"Out bird is flown, no thanks to you." He was saying, Dr Watson trailing behind him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his wife once again, bending down to look her in the eye and speaking to her in a hushed voice, "Are you alright, my darling?"

"No, Holmes," Dr Watson argued, "it wasn't what you think. We saw her, the ghost."

"There are no ghosts!"

Charlotte flinched at her husband's outburst and the room grew quiet. The distant sounds of crows cawing from outside the broken window in the next room filling this silence. Sherlock gripped his wife's shoulders in an attempt to console her and Dr Watson thinned his lips, taking every bit of his will to not punch his friend in front of a lady, "What happened? Where is Sir Eustace?"

Sherlock paused, taking a moment to try and catch his breath before speaking the word that none of them wanted to hear, but having no other choice but to relay the fact of Sir Eustace's well-being:

"Dead."


	7. Chapter 7

"You really mustn't blame yourself, you know?" Lestrade said, taking notes in his small notepad that he carried on his person at all times. Sherlock stood next to him and inhaled deeply.

"No, you're quite right." He said.

"Glad you're seeing sense." Sarcasm dripped off of Dr Watson's words.

"Watson is equally culpable. Between us, we've managed to botch his whole case. I give an undertaking to protect that man, now he's lying there with a dagger in his breast."

"Mr Holmes." Miss Charlotte tried to calm her husband down while Watson approached the body of Sir Eustace, ignoring his friend's jabs at his performance of the job at hand.

"In fact," The Doctor said, "You gave an undertaking to investigate his murder."

"In the confident expectation I would not have to."

The Detective Inspector sighed, "Anything you can tell us, Doctor?"

"Well, he's been stabbed with considerable force."

"It's a man, then."

The Doctor looked skeptical, "Possibly."

"A very keen blade, so it could conceivably have been a woman."

Dr Watson was suddenly very heated, getting back on his feet and turning to face the small crowd in an outburst of emotion, "In theory, yes, but we know who it was, I saw her!"

"Watson." Sherlock warned, but it was not heeded as he continued.

"I saw the ghost with my own eyes. Miss Charlotte and I both did."

Miss Holmes said nothing to back him up. She knew what she saw, but she didn't believe it. Or at least, she didn't want to. She stepped back and gripped her hands together, looking away from the men that surrounded her. Sherlock watched her from the corner of his eye, keeping watch over her as he always did and tried to steer the conversation away from the supernatural.

"You saw nothing. You saw what you were supposed to see." He said.

"You said yourself, I have no imagination." Dr Watson shot back.

"Use your brains, such as it is, to eliminate the impossible, which in this case is the ghost. And observe what remains, which in this case is the solution so blindingly obvious, even Lestrade could work it out."

"Thank you." The Detective inspector said graciously. Miss Charlotte smiled at him.

"Forget spectres from the other world. There is only one suspect with motive and opportunity. They might as well have left a note."

"They did leave a note."

"And then there's the matter of the other broken window."

"What other broken window?"

"Precisely, there isn't one. The only broken window in this establishment is the one that Watson and I entered through, yet prior to that we distinctly heard the sound – What did you just say?"

Lestrade was taken aback at the harsh subject change, "Sorry?"

"About a note, what did you just say?"

"I said the murderer did leave a note."

"No, they didn't."

"There's a message tied to the dagger, you must have seen it."

While the men argued about the note on the body, Miss Charlotte decided to go have a look for herself. She approached the body cautiously, still a little shaken up from the events of the night, but she folded her knees under herself and picked up the small tag that was tied to the murder weapon, just as the Detective Inspector had said. She held it up gingerly with her gloved hands and turned it over to read the inscription, her whole body growing rigid as her eyes scanned over the words. Her heart raced and she swallowed nervously, hardly able to speak though she knew she had to show Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes." She stated, barely above a whisper.

"There's no message." Sherlock was still arguing with Lestrade and Charlotte had to turn her head so that her voice would carry to her husband, calling out to him again. He finally looked at her, joining her at the body of Sir Eustace, "There was no message when I found the body."

His voice faded out as he got closer to his wife, looking at the note that her slender fingers were holding. She was tense, her hands shaking and he had to hold on to her hand that was holding the note so that he could read it properly, his own muscles tensing up upon reading what she already knew. He stood, slowly and carefully, his machine-like brain trying to think things through and shut down all at the same time. Charlotte watched him turn and go back downstairs. He was ignoring Dr Watson's questions and taking very careful steps and Dr Watson looked back at Miss Holmes with questioning eyes. He approached her still kneeled figure, reading the note over her shoulder. He furrowed his brow at the message and looked back at the retreating Sherlock, who looked as if he might faint, and wondered what on earth it could mean.

_Miss me?_


	8. Chapter 8

A knock sounded at the door of 221 Baker Street and Mrs Hudson called out, reassuring the guest that she had heard the door and was on her way. Opening the door, she greeted Detective Inspector Lestrade as he walked in, the two made idle chit chat at the doorway before Lestrade finally got to the chase: checking in on Sherlock. No one had heard from him since the night of Sir Eustace's murder and Scotland Yard was beginning to get concerned. Mrs Hudson made a face and led him up the stairs to the Holmes' flat, cracking the door open just enough for the two of them to see Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. He was silent, eyes closed with notes spread all around him and his dressing robe flared out behind him. Mrs Hudson took a deep breath, "Two days he's been like that."

"Has he eaten?" Lestrade asked, following Mrs Hudson's actions and keeping his voice down. She shook her head.

"No, not a morsel. Miss Charlotte keeps bringing him food, but he hasn't touched it."

He hadn't noticed it before, but having been brought to his attention he noticed a tray of food sat next to the Detective, untouched, probably from the morning. Mr Holmes was a lucky man to have found someone that loving and dedicated to handle him when he was like this. He sighed and shook his head, "Press are having a ruddy field day. The steward boy is outside."

"They've been there all the time, I can't get rid of them. I've been rushed off my feet making tea."

Lestrade furrowed his brow, "Why do you make 'em tea?"

"I don't know. I just sort of do."

Lestrade refrained from diving into the subject of Mrs Hudson tea-making obsession and moved their conversational topic closer to the situation at hand, "He said there's only one suspect and then he just walks away and now he won't explain."

"Which is strange, because he likes that bit."

"He said it's so simple, I could solve it."

"I'm sure he was exaggerating."

Lestrade gave her a look of offense and the two sunk back a bit when they heard footsteps coming from the kitchen. Miss Holmes came around the corner with a tray of tea and little sandwiches. She knelt down and set it on the floor to Sherlock's right, just next to a clearing amongst his notes picked up a cup for herself before standing again. She looked on at him with such love and adoration in her eyes, it broke Mrs Hudson and Lestrade's hearts. She was good for him, everyone knew that. And that wasn't to say that he treated her badly; he was always the perfect gentlemen, always watching out for her and protecting her. But at times like this, when he was statuesque for days on end, leaving Miss Holmes to fair on her own, everyone worried about her. Usually Dr Watson was there with her, but since his marriage to Mary, Miss Charlotte was left on her own. Though she didn't seem to mind, everyone still came to check on her until Sherlock was back to normal. Well, as normal as he could be, considering.

The onlookers watched Charlotte take her tea to one of the sitting chairs and pick up her current book and Lestrade let a frustrated breath out of his nose, "What is he doing, do you think?"

"He says he is waiting."

"For what?"

"The devil." Mrs Hudson replied, "I wouldn't be surprised. We got all sorts here."

"Well, wire me if there is any change."

She nodded her understanding and The Detective Inspector traveled back down the stairs, seeing himself out while Mrs Hudson continued to look on at the Holmes' couple. With Sherlock sat still and quiet in the living room floor and Miss Holmes in her chair, patiently waiting for her husband to finish his "work", Mrs Hudson wondered how on earth these two came to be. The landlady shook her head before quietly closing the door behind her and starting back to her own rooms and leaving Mr and Miss Holmes to their personal life without a word.

* * *

When night fell, Miss Holmes closed her book and looked on at her husband, still sitting still as a statue in the middle of their floor. She sighed, a small smile gracing her features as she stood, her dressing gown and robe dragging the floor around her feet. On any other night she would bid her husband goodnight with a chaste kiss, but not this night, just like the last two. She set her book down in the chair and headed off to bed, turning out the lamps as she went. Once she was in bed and asleep, Sherlock peeked his eyes open, moving one of the newspapers laid out in front of him to reveal a small open case with a syringe. A fairly nice instrument of mediocre quality, but after having had a lot of use it seemed in poor condition. However for him, it did its job. He picked up the needle and peered down the hall to the bedroom he shared with Charlotte. She had never been fond of his habit, but she never voiced her opinion. That didn't stop Sherlock from noticing. He noticed everything about her; he was always thinking of her, always concerned about her. Most never understood their relationship and they were constantly accused of using it as a "cover up" - whatever that meant. Sherlock didn't really care what anyone else thought. It wasn't anyone else's business, but he loved her, and she loved him, thus the reason for his feeling of being torn. The drugs helped with cases, but it upset his wife.

Inhaling deeply, he silently apologized to his wife and picked up the syringe.

* * *

_"_ _Which is it today? Morphine or cocaine? ... Holmes?"_

Sherlock started to come to, to the sound of Dr Watson's voice. He blinked, feeling his body twitch back to life while the Doctor continued his attempts to get his attention. His limbs felt like noodles as he tried to get his muscles to function, making it an even harder task.

"Morphine or cocaine, which is it today?" he said, "Answer me, damn it."

Sherlock sucked in a breath, mumbling incoherently for a moment, "Moriarty was here."

"Moriarty's dead."

He stretched his limbs, attempting to get his body moving again after so many days sitting so stiffly, blinking up at his companion, "I was on a jet."

"A what?"

"You were there, Mycroft. And Lottie."

"Lottie?"

"Yes, Lottie. My wife, Charlotte." He looked around and sat up, spotting the tray of untouched food near his head, "Where is my wife?"

"She's downstairs with Mrs Hudson. You haven't left these rooms, Holmes. You haven't moved. So when Miss Charlotte woke and found you unconscious on the floor, again, she wired me. Now, tell me." Dr Watson paced so that he was now standing in front of the famous detective, "Morphine or cocaine?"

Sherlock sighed in defeat, "Cocaine. A 7% solution. Would you care to try it?"

"No. But I would quite like to find every ounce of this stuff in your possession and pour it out of the window."

"I should be inclined to stop you."

"Then you would be reminded, quite forcibly, which of us is a soldier and which of us a drug addict."

"You're not a soldier, you are a doctor."

"I'm an army doctor, which means I can break every bone in your body while naming them."

"My dear Watson, you are allowing emotion to cloud your judgement."

"Never on a case. You promised me, never on a case."

"No, I just said that in one of your stories."

"Listen." Dr Watson's face was growing red with anger, even more than usual, "I'm happy to play the fool for you. I will run along behind you like some halfwit, making you look clever, if that's what you need. But dear God above! You will hold yourself to a higher standard."

"Why?"

Dr Watson hesitated, "Because people need you to."

"What people, why? Because of your idiot stories?"

"Yes, because of my idiot stories. And also because your wife wired me in a panic because she woke to her husband unconscious and barely alive in her living room."

Sherlock's face faltered. He thought back to all the times he used and suddenly realized that he'd never fell unconscious in such a compromised way that his wife might find him. He was always so careful. He glanced down at the floor just as the little boy, Billy, came running into the room calling out his name.

"Mr Holmes. Telegram, Mr Holmes."

He handed off the letter and ran back out of the room. Sherlock hesitated before opening it, looking up at Watson with a look of guilt and the Doctor rolled his eyes, encouraging him to open it. It seemed urgent and Sherlock finally did so, whipping the paper away from his face to unfold it and letting his eyes scan the paper. He glanced at his companion again but said nothing. The Doctor sighed, knowing the look on his friend's face.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's Mary." Sherlock said simply.

"Mary? What about her?"

"It's entirely possibly she's in danger."

"Danger?"

"There's not a moment to lose." Sherlock slipped out of his robe and into his coat, already getting a plan together based off of Mary's letter when a new voice joined them.

"Who's in danger?"

Sherlock's heart thumped when he turned to see his wife coming up the stairs to join them. He stopped and brought all of his attention to her, noticing how pained her smile was and regretting ever having put that needle in his arm to begin with, just like he always did. He wish he had more time to make it up to her, but he simply did not. He gave her a weak smile and she nodded her head. There would be a conversation later, but for now he wanted her by his side.

"Mary, she's in danger." He replied to her question.

"Is this the cocaine talking?" Dr Watson asked, obviously still upset by the Detective's actions. Sherlock flinched, wishing the Doctor had not brought up such an obviously tender subject around his wife. He glared at him from over his shoulder and the Doctor continued, dropping the topic and saving it for a later time, "What danger could Mary be in? I'm sure she's just visiting with friends."

Something down in Charlotte's gut told her that she should be offended by Dr Watson's statement, but she said nothing. Sherlock led her down the stairs she'd just come up, calling over his shoulder for Watson to hurry. In the foyer Sherlock was trying to button his overcoat and grab his and Charlotte's coats at the same time. He was frantic and sloppy, and quite frankly he was starting to scare his wife. Dr Watson finally came down the steps after them and looked towards Miss Holmes for the answer to his silent question, knowing she knew as much as he did.

"What is happening?" he said, "Are you even in a fit state?"

"I wish you would quit bringing that up in front of my already frightened wife, but to answer your question, yes. For Mary, of course. Never doubt that, Watson. Never that." Sherlock sighed, taking deep, wheezy breaths. Miss Charlotte immediately knew something was wrong. She approached her husband, unintentionally pushing Dr Watson out of the way subconsciously and placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, taking his hand in hers.

"Sherlock?" Her voice was strained, worry etched into every sound she was making. Sherlock gripped her hand and groaned, bending over in pain and she went with him, calling out to him in fear. Dr Watson stepped closer but the Detective pushed him away. None of them said a word about his outburst and he turned to his wife, refusing to let go of her hand, and reassured her that he was fine in a calm, however urgent, voice. She thinned her lips in what he knew was a disapproving smile but he didn't push it. Instead he reached for his hat on the rack and picked up a black, rounded bowlers hat. Dr Watson took it from him and slung it across the room behind them.

"Not that one. This one." He said, picking up the deerstalker. He received a questioning look from Sherlock and he rolled his eyes, "You're Sherlock Holmes, wear the damn hat."

A small smile finally did make an appearance on Charlotte's lips when Sherlock took the hat and placed it on his head, grabbing her hand once more and leading them all outside, calling for a cab as soon as they stepped foot on the pavement.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a quiet cab ride out to wherever Sherlock was taking them. But the English countryside was beautiful this time of year and Miss Charlotte was happy to watch the green hills roll by to the sound of the horses hooves on the dirt, her husband's hand entangled in her own. However Dr Watson never could stand the silence and Charlotte merely smiled and shook her head when he finally broke the silence with his speech.

"So, tell me, where is she?" he started. Sherlock sighed, rubbing his temples in frustration, or from feeling unwell, Charlotte couldn't tell. But Dr Watson wasn't paying him any mind, angry at Mr Holmes' silence, "You must tell me. What's going on?"

"Oh, good old Watson. How would we fill the time if you didn't ask questions?" Sherlock shouted.

_"_ _Sherlock, tell me where my bloody wife is, you pompous prick, or I'll punch your lights out."_

Sherlock's head whipped around to face him, absorbing his funny use of language and shaking his head to rid himself of his double-vision. It was familiar but it didn't fit. He looked to his wife and she didn't seem to be phased by the Doctor's odd phrasing, unwavering in her gaze out the window and he shook himself of the distracting observation when Watson repeated himself after only receiving silence from his companion. Maybe he really did go a little overboard with the drugs this time.

"Holmes, where is she?"

"A de-sanctified church." He finally said, gripping his wife's hand in mild concern, "She thinks she's found the solution. For no better reason than that, she's put herself in the path of considerable danger. Excellent choice of wife."

Charlotte covered her lips to surpress a giggle at Dr Watson's emotional reaction. After that the Doctor decided to sit back and keep his mouth shut for the short remainder of the ride. The church Sherlock spoke of could be seen in the distance. It was hard to make out through the thick fog, but it appeared to almost be in ruins. Once there, the three of them rushed into the abandoned building, meeting Miss Mary Watson a few turns in. She appeared around a corner, stepping out in front of them and scaring her husband without any look of regret.

"I found them." She whispered, pride clear by the tone of her words. Voices could be heard faintly in the distance and Miss Watson nodded her head for them to follow. Dr Watson was quick to fall in step behind her and The Holmes' glanced at each other before jogging to catch up. Mary led them down stairs, the way lit by small fires at all the doorways and archways, all of them keeping quiet and careful to remain hidden from whoever was down there with them.

"What is all this, Mary?" Dr Watson asked, keeping his voice down. Mary was quick to turn around and explain herself, a broad grin plastered on her features.

"This is the heart of it all, John. The heart of the conspiracy."

Mr and Miss Holmes remained silent behind the Watsons, following the two down several more fire-lit hallways as the chanting got louder with every step they took. The four finally stopped to hide behind a wall with large, decorative openings, obviously made in a time when gothic architecture was all the rage, watching a group on the other side dressed in all black, their faces covered by pointed hoods. They walked in two single file lines and Charlotte swallowed, biting her lip anxiously. They were an intimidating bunch, obviously not ones to be underestimated. Sherlock subconsciously leaned forward so that he stood with his arms on either side of her, trying to make her feel as safe as possible

"Great God. What is this place?" Dr Watson commented, turning to his wife, "And what the devil are you doing here?"

"I've been making inquiries." Miss Watson argued, standing her ground, "Mr Holmes asked me."

Watson turned to his friend, "Holmes, how could you?"

"No, not him, the clever one. It seemed obvious to me that this business could not be managed alone. My theory is that Mrs Ricoletti had help, help from her friends."

"Bravo, Mary." Sherlock stood over his wife as she watched the chanting group apprehensively. His hand hovering over her frame as he nodded his head in an impressed fashion to Miss Watson, though he wasn't happy about the off-handed comment comparing him to his brother, "'The clever one'?"

Miss Watson merely shrugged her shoulders in apology but Dr Watson was shaking his head, obviously disapproving and still trying to wrap his head around what was happening, "I…I thought I was losing you. I thought perhaps we were…Neglecting each other."

"Well, you're the one who moved out." Sherlock replied and Charlotte's shoulders slumped. Mary looked over to see Miss Holmes with her eyes looking up to whatever God she believed in, questioning every decision she'd ever made that led her to be married to the man behind her. Miss Watson stifled her laugher as the red head reached back to smack her husband's arm.

"He was talking to Mary." She whispered.

Sherlock looked sheepish and Dr Watson simply shook his head, returning to the conversation between him and his wife, "You're working for Mycroft?"

"He likes to keep an eye on his mad sibling." Mary replied.

"We had a spy at hand. Has it never occurred to you your wife is excessively skilled for a nurse?" Sherlock said.

"Of course, it hasn't. Because he knows what a nurse is capable of. When did it occur to you?"

"Only now, I'm afraid."

Mary smirked, "Must be difficult. Being the slow little brother."

"Time has sped up. Enough chatter, let's concentrate."

The four of them agreed, turning their attention back to the ceremony they were witnessing. The room they had been watching was now full of hooded figures, all gathered facing the wall ahead of them, almost as if they were attending some sort of religious service. The Holmes' and Watsons waited in the shadows, observing and waiting for some sort of sign that might give them a hint or insight as to what this group was doing down in the belly of an abandoned church.

"What exactly are they doing?" Miss Charlotte mused, her curiosity getting the best of her, as it always did.

"Yes, what's all this about? What do they want to accomplish?" Mary added.

"Why don't we go and find out?" Sherlock helped Charlotte to her feet and took off down the hall, following the sound of the chanting two rooms over and dragging his wife behind him. He spotted a gong just as they entered and before Charlotte could stop him he had found a mallot and struck the instrument, letting the sound ring out and echo down the halls of the old church. She tensed as the crowd turned their attention back to the newcomers. She suddenly had the urge to strangle her husband, the urge growing with every word he spoke, "Sorry, I could never resist the gong."

"Or a touch of the dramatic." Charlotte said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock glanced back at her and thinned his lips, ignoring her comment as he meandered to the center of the room, and consequentially to the center of attention, leaving his wife and the Watsons to stand behind and watch on, "It seems you share my enthusiasm in that regard. Superlative theatre. I applaud the spectacle. Emelia Ricoletti shot herself, then apparently returned from the grave and killed her husband. So, how was it done? Let's take the events in order."

"Oh, dear." Charlotte muttered, knowing where this was heading. The cult-group remained silent, listening to Sherlock tell his tale as if they were enraptured by his story-telling, though Charlotte felt there was something more there and she prayed that they weren't just waiting for the perfect time to strike and murder him on the spot.

"Mrs Ricoletti gets everyone's attention in very efficient fashion. She places one of the revolvers in her mouth, while actually firing the other into the ground. An accomplice sprays the curtains with blood, and thus her apparent suicide is witnessed by the frightened crowd below. A substitute corpse, bearing a strong resemblance to Mrs Ricoletti, takes her place and is later transported to the morgue. A grubby little suicide of little interest to Scotland Yard. Meanwhile, the real Mrs Ricoletti slips away. Now comes the really clever part. Mrs Ricoletti persuaded a cab driver, someone who knew her, to intercept her husband outside his favourite opium den. Perfect stage for a perfect drama. A perfect positive identification. The late Mrs Ricoletti has returned from the grave, and a little skilled makeup, and you have nothing less than the wrath of a vengeful ghost. All that remained was to substitute the real Mrs Ricoletti for the corpse in the morgue. This time, should anyone attempt to identify her, it would be a positively, absolutely her."

"But why would she do that?" Charlotte asked without hesitation. She cleared her throat nervously when everyone looked at her but she never could resist her husband's storytelling, watching him pace back and forth down the middle of the room. She had questions and she knew he had the answers, "Die to prove a point?"

"Every great cause has martyrs. Every war has suicide missions, and make no mistake this is war. One half of the human race at war with the other. The invisible army hovering at our elbows. Tending to our homes. Raising our children. Ignored. Patronized. Disregarded. Not allowed so much as a vote."

At this, Sherlock paused, locking eyes with his wife as she stood watching him. She and he had both agreed that she was a lucky woman; lucky to find a man that allowed her to accompany him so often instead of leaving her at home to tend to the house or raise any children they planned on having. Most woman never got the chance, like Mary. The group around them suddenly removed their hoods, revealing a room full of women that stood in silent anger as Sherlock continued, "But, this is an army, nonetheless, ready to rise up in the best of causes. To put right an injustice as old as humanity itself. So, you see, Watson, Mycroft was right. This is a war we must lose."

Dr Watson stood in awe, swallowing his pride and clearing his throat. He stood straight, adopting a more serious stance before he spoke, "She was dying."

"Who was?"

"Emelia Ricoletti. There were clear signs of consumption. I doubt she was long for this world."

"So, she decided to make her death count." Charlotte muttered.

"She was already familiar with the secret societies of America. Was able to draw on their methods of fear and intimidation to publically, very publically, confront Sir Eustace Carmichael with the sins of his past." Sherlock said.

"He knew her out in the States. Promised her everything. Marriage, position." A new voice spoke. Sherlock turned to face the woman as she spoke, stepping out into the middle of the room so that she could be seen, "And then he had his way with her. And threw her over. Left her abandoned and penniless."

As the woman approached him, a trigger of something in his memory pulled at Sherlock's brain. A memory involving a swift hand to the face that he couldn't quite make out but he knew one thing: "Hooper?"

"Holmes."

By now, the Holmes' and the Watsons were surrounded by this group of women, all of them closing on them and Charlotte would be lying if she said she didn't feel a little intimidated by these women, but she also felt a spark of pride for her sex. Next to her, she knew that Mary felt it too. Dr Watson sucked in a breath and stepped forward.

"For the record, Holmes, Dr Hooper didn't have me fooled."

The men exchanged an awkward glance and Dr Watson seemed to get the message: now was not the time.

"Emelia thought that she found happiness with Ricoletti." Another new voice spoke, "But, he was a brute, too."

Sherlock recognized this voice as well, though it felt as though it was from another world. Her perfume in his nostrils and a kiss on his lips came to mind when he laid eyes on this woman and he looked back at his wife in uncertainty. She looked on at him, her innocent eyes enrapturing him as they always did, and unknowing of the confusion going on in his head. He shook his head.

"Emelia Ricoletti was our friend." The woman spoke, "You have no idea how that bastard treated her."

"But the bride, Holmes, Miss Charlotte and I saw her. You saw her." Dr Watson said.

Sherlock reluctantly tore his gaze from his wife to his friend, "Yes, Watson, we did. The sound of breaking glass. Not a window. Just an old theatrical trick." At Dr Watson's and Charlotte's puzzled stares he continued to explain, "It's called Pepper's Ghost. A simple reflection in glass of a living, breathing person. Their only mistake was breaking the glass when they removed it. Look around you. This room is full of brides."

Charlotte, Dr Watson, and Mary all started to glance around the room, really look around, taking in the sight of what Sherlock has claimed was an army fit for war.

"Once she had risen, anyone could be her. The avenging ghost. A legend to strike terror into the heart of any man with malicious intent. A spectre to stalk those unpunished brutes whose reckoning is long overdue. A league of fury is awakened. The women I…" he stopped, correcting himself, "We have lied to. Betrayed. The women we have ignored. And disparaged.

"Once the idea exists, it cannot be killed. This is the work of a single-minded person. Someone who knew firsthand about Sir Eustace's mental cruelty. The dark secret. Kept from all but her closest friends, including Emelia Ricoletti. The woman her husband wronged all those years before. If one disregards the ghost, there is only one suspect. Isn't that right, Lady Carmichael?"

Charlotte had been so caught up in her husband's explanation that she hadn't noticed the person who had joined them, dressed in full wedding gown and veil, standing almost right beside her. She gasped a little and stepped closer to Mary and Dr Watson. Something felt off about them, something that struck fear in her heart and Sherlock turned to the newcomer, "One small detail doesn't quite make sense to me, however. Why engage me to prevent a murder you intended to commit? Hmm?"

The person chuckled, "It doesn't quite make sense. Of course it doesn't' make sense, it's not real. Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock's features grew perplexed. And with a flip of the veil, Lady Carmicheal was actually Professor James Moriarty. Sherlock took in a small breath, his body beginning to shake, he muttered his disbelief. "No. Not you. It can't be you."

"I mean, come on, be serious." The professor taunted, "The costumes, the gun. Speaking as a criminal mastermind, we don't really have guns, or special outfits."

 _"_ _What the hell is going on_?" a voice, a familiar one. It rang out in his ears from far away, but all he could see was someone who he watched die now standing right in front of him, staring at him with those cold, dead eyes.

"Is it silly enough for you yet? Gothic enough, mad enough, even for you? It doesn't make sense, Sherlock. Because it's not real. None of it."

 _"_ _What's he talking about?"_ the voice again. Still so far away, so distorted. Sherlock blinked hard, trying to focus with little success.

"This is all in our mind." Moriarty said.

 _"_ _Sherlock?"_ Another voice, one he craved, mixed with the other voice calling out to him.

 _"_ _Holmes."_ they said.

Moriarty leaned in closer, "You're dreaming."

_"_ _Is he dreaming?"_

"And there he is." _The voice of his brother came through Sherlock's fuzzy coherence,_

"I thought I'd lost you." _He could faintly hear Lottie next to him and his head lulled towards her, away from a bright light that was shining in his eyes, welcoming her touch._

"May I just check, is this what you mean by controlled usage?"

"Mrs. Emelia Ricoletti, I need to know where she was buried." _Sherlock mumbled._

"What? 120 years ago?"

"Yes." _He strained himself to sit up, gripping onto Lottie's hand for assistance and swinging his legs off of the bed they had put him in. They seemed to have taken him to a hospital. Lottie put her hands around his waist to help him to his feet and steady him, and he was more than grateful for the feeling of her touch again. He was pushing everyone else away, but he blatantly leaned to his fiancée for support._

"That would take weeks to find, if those records even exist. Even with my resources."

_Lottie rolled her eyes but Mary announced from the corner of the room that she'd found the records, earning a surprised look from Mycroft. Even after everything Mary had done to Sherlock, Lottie found herself smirking in spite of it. Sherlock fumbled around till he found her hand and laced their fingers together, following Mary out of the room with everyone else in tow. Police cars were waiting outside and they all crammed into the first cars they saw with Mary, John, Sherlock, and Lottie in the lead car so that Mary cold give the directions. Lottie spent the car ride keeping an eye on Sherlock, dabbing the sweat from his forehead and making him drink water. She wasn't sure if that's what you were supposed to do when someone OD'd but that's what her instincts told her to do. Sherlock was taking deep breaths to keep the nausea away, gripping Lottie's knee and keeping close to her. He knew he was being childish in only allowing her to get close to him but being whom he was he really couldn't have cared less. His whole body ached and he could barely see straight, but this was something he had to do. He pushed through the pain, allowing Lottie to take care of him and hoping that he would feel well enough to see this through once they reached their destination._

_Once they arrived at the graveyard, the cars came to a screeching halt and everyone jumped out of the vehicles. Sherlock was finally no longer seeing double-vision, but his body still ached and his head was pounding. He was basically refusing to let go of Lottie's hand in fear that the dizziness would return, leading her on a search for the grave of Emelia Ricoletti, a shovel in his other hand that had been given to him by someone from the police force when they'd first arrived. With Sherlock's bottle of water in her free hand, Lottie kept quiet and followed after him without a complaint. The ginger felt exhausted in every sense of the word, and it was all she could do to keep up with Sherlock. Her tears were dry, her chest ached with emotion and anxiety, she could barely keep her eyes open and her legs moving but she wanted to absorb every moment of this in case they would be ripped apart again._

"I don't get it. How is this relevant?" _John voiced behind them._

"I need to know I was right, then I'll be sure." _Sherlock replied._

"You mean how Moriarty did it?" _Mary asked and Sherlock gave her a short, positive reply._

"But none of that really happened, it was in your head." _John said._

"My investigation was the fantasy. The crime happened exactly as I explained." _Sherlock said._

"Stone's erected by a group of her friends." _Mary added._

 _Mycroft joined them once his police car arrived to the scene, falling into step and catching up on the conversation quickly,_ "Now, what do you think you'll find here?"

"I need to try." _Sherlock's voice sounded close to breaking. This whole situation had gotten totally out of control. Ever since Moriarty killed himself, it had gone downhill from there. Lottie felt Sherlock squeezing her hand till it was about to break, trying to keep as calm and grounded as possible_ [MMS1] _. They turned a corner and she stopped him, digging her feet into the dirt and pulling on his hand. He looked back at her with what one could consider to be a frantic look in his eyes, but she knew this look. She knew her fiancée. He was on a case, and he was determined to solve it. He was frantic, yes, but he was a man on a mission. She pointed to a large tombstone with the water bottle still in hand. He followed her gaze and saw the faint name engraved in the rock:_

_EMELIA RICOLETTI_

_BELOVED SISTER  
FAITHFUL BEYOND DEATH_

_DIED DECEMBER 18 1894_

_Sherlock squeezed her hand as a reward, a look of pride lighting up his eyes and he pulled her towards the grave. Everyone followed and gathered around the site while Sherlock stood over it, gripping the shovel with both hands now,_ "Mrs. Ricoletti was buried here, but what happened to the other one? The corpse they substituted for her after the so-called suicide."

"They'd move it, of course they would." _John answered._

"But where?"

"Well, not here."

"But that…" _Sherlock huffed,_ "That's exactly what they must have done. The conspirators had someone on the inside. They found a body just like Molly Hooper found a body for me when…"

_He trailed off, noticing everyone's demeanors grow uncomfortable. John wasn't looking at him and he was doing that thing with his lips. Sherlock glanced at Mary who was giving him a hard look. Her eyes teetered between John and Lottie and Sherlock followed, noticing the anxious ticks that haunted Lottie, and by association himself. He knew those ticks like the back of his hand. He always noticed without even realizing that he was noticing; kind of how his brain sometimes made deductions without him noticing. Lottie had begun wringing her hands and biting the inside of her cheek. Sherlock took a deep breath, clearing his throat, "Yeah, but we don't need to go into all that again, do we?"_

_Lottie swallowed, looking at the ground and suddenly feeling very alone. Sherlock was unintentionally making her anxious, and she knew he didn't mean it, but in situations like this she would usually go to John or Mary, though neither of them were an option right now. John was clearly busy trying to balance keeping a level head and keeping their detective in check. And as far as she and Mary had come since she'd shot her now fiancée, Lottie still didn't feel comfortable going to her for things like this. She pushed through her nerves and tried to concentrate and the case, listening to everyone else and taking things in with calm, steady breaths. Though she stood holding her arms and if she bit her lip any harder she was going to bite it off._

"You're not seriously gonna do this?" _John said._

"It's why we came here." _Sherlock replied,_ "I need to know."

"Spoken like an addict." _John started to walk away, and Lottie started to reach out to him but Sherlock spoke before she could reach him._

"This is important to me!"

 _John turned back around, grabbing Lottie's outstretched arm and pulling her out of his way, albeit a little more forcibly than he'd intended, his voice was cold and he was almost speaking through gritted teeth,_ "No, this is you needing a fix."

"John!" _Mary called, trying to reach Lottie, but his hand remained on the ginger's arm, holding her in place as a source of support and a barrier in case he make a charge for Sherlock. Lottie squeezed her eyes shut, noticing how hard it was to keep her breathing even. She hated when they fought. She always had and she always would._

"Moriarty's back, we have a case. We have a real life problem, right now." _Mycroft reminded._

"John, please, we need you." _Lottie was trying to take advantage of her position, speaking to him quietly and on a personal level, trying to get him to see reason where there really wasn't any. He was squeezing her arm rather painfully but she made no attempt to pull away and he was basically ignoring her._

"Yes, getting to that, it's next on my list. Now if you would please take your hands off of my wife and just let me do this." _Sherlock gripped his shovel and everyone blinked in surprise, especially Lottie, who sucked in a surprised breath._

"Your…wife?" _she muttered. But the moment was lost in John's angry rampage. He did let go of her, but she remained still as Sherlock pleaded with him to no avail._

"No, everyone always lets you do whatever you want. That's how you got in this state. I'm not playing this time, Sherlock. Not anymore. When you're ready to go to work, give me a call. I'm taking Mary home."

 _He placed his hand on his wife's back but she gave him a disagreeing look,_ "You're what?"

"Mary's taking me home."

"Better."

_The two walked off, leaving the rest of them in a dead silence. Sherlock wasn't looking at any of them and Lottie was looking on at him with perplexed eyes. She loved him, and she wanted to support him, but she just wished he would talk to her. She saw what he was trying to do and she wanted to badly to understand what he was trying to accomplish. Yes, this was a case. A very old case, but still a case. And for him to be this determined there had to be a reason. His use of the word 'wife' would have to wait._

"He's right, you know." _Mycroft finally spoke up._

"So what if he's right?" _Sherlock spat,_ "He's always right, it's boring."

 _Mycroft looked down at him, unable to say a word in his brother's fit of rage. Sherlock locked eyes with Lottie. She was still staring at him, still in shock at him calling her his wife. He thinned his lips, pleading to her with his eyes,_ "Will you help me?"

 _He finally tore his gaze away and looked between her and his brother and Lestrade. Mycroft finally shrugged his shoulders,_ "Cherchez la femme."


	10. Chapter 10

_The four of them worked well into the night, with Mycroft and Lottie holding the flashlights for Sherlock and Lestrade who were digging into the grave. Both of them had ditched their coats, with Sherlock having given his to Lottie to keep warm, thankful for the cool night air as they worked. After several hours, Sherlock finally hit wood. They stopped and the group exchanged worried looks. Lottie swallowed the lump in her throat as Sherlock handed her his shovel. He dusted off the coffin while Lestrade handed his own shovel off to Mycroft and the two of them readied their stance, getting a good grip before pulling it out of the ground and setting it just beside the hole they'd just dug. Lottie was quick to back away, uneasy about digging up the dead, and she was surprised to find the eldest Holmes brother following her lead. He had a look of disgust on his features and he was subconsciously dusting invisible dirt off of his fingers. Lottie couldn't help but inwardly chuckle at the scene until the sound of cracking wood caught her attention. Sherlock and Lestrade yanked the coffin open with a crowbar and lifted the lid, unsurprisingly revealing a very decomposed body. Lottie gasped and stepped even further away, the maggots in the body's eyes making her nauseous. Sherlock didn't pay them any mind, reaching into the coffin without hesitation, looking for some sort of trap door or something at the bottom, but finding nothing._

"Oh, dear." _Mycroft started,_ "The cupboard is bare."

 _Sherlock paused only a moment before jumping back down into the 6 foot hole in the ground,_ "They must have buried it underneath. They must have buried it underneath the coffin."

 _He began to dig with his gloved hands, frantically trying to find something that obviously wasn't there. Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a look and Lottie got down on her knees next to the grave with her eyes full of pity,_ "Sherly,"

"Bad luck, Sherlock." _Lestrade said,_ "Maybe they got rid of the body in another way."

"Not more than likely." _Sherlock said, digging as fast as his arms would go._

"At any rate, it was a very long time ago. We do have slightly more pressing matters at hand, little brother." _Mycroft reminded,_ "Moriarty? Back from the dead?"

_That's when they heard it: that spine-chilling, raspy voice singing from the coffin next to Lottie. The three above ground turned to towards the sound, Sherlock's body going rigid as the song reached his ears. He could hear Lottie calling out to him in a frightened whisper, the sound of bones beginning to move after so many years of immobility filled the night air. Lottie screamed as the body sat up and leapt into the grave where Sherlock had been digging, the feeling of boney fingers digging into his skin and Lottie's frightened screams filling his ears._

He gasped and suddenly he was no longer in the graveyard, but on a rocky ledge of a waterfall. He was breathing heavy, as if he'd been running for miles and had just now stopped to catch his breath. He sat up and looked around, trying to understand what was happening to him, "Oh, I see. Still not awake, am I?"

Taking in his surroundings, he found that he was soaked and covered in mud, sitting dangerously close to the edge of a cliff, right next to a large waterfall. And at his feet, none other than Professor James Moriarty himself was standing over him, that same satisfied grin on his face just like always. Sherlock sighed.

"Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep." Moriarty said, watching the detective get to his feet, "Congratulations, you'll be the first man in history to be buried in his own mind palace."

Sherlock looked around again, turning back to his arch nemesis, "The setting's a shade melodramatic, don't you think?"

"For you and me?" Moriarty looked around with the corners of his lips pulled down, "Not at all."

There was a silence, the sound of the waterfall the only thing filling the air, and Sherlock finally dived into the subject that was hanging in the air, why they were really there, "What are you?"

"You know what I am. I'm Moriarty. The Napoleon of crime."

"Moriarty is dead."

"Not in your mind. I'll never be dead there. You once called your brain a hard drive. Well, say hello to the virus. This is how we end, you and I. Always here. Always together."

The Professor had started making his way forward, backing Sherlock up to the edge of the rock. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the massive amount of water tumbling down into the abyss. There was no end, only darkness at the bottom. He turned back to face Moriarty, "You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty. I admire it. I concede it may be even be the equal of my own."

Moriarty smiled, "I'm touched. I'm honored."

"But when it comes to the matter of unarmed combat on the edge of a precipice, you're going in the water. Short-arse."

That's when it began. Moriarty made the first move, hitting a vital point in Sherlock's neck to momentarily stop his breathing. After that it was an all-out brawl, both of them going at it with all of the pent up anger and hostility that they'd had for each other after so many years.

"Oh, you think you're so big and strong, Sherlock? Not with me." Moriarty threw a punch that almost sent Sherlock over the edge of the cliff. The Detective was quick to turn on his back to defend himself, "I am your weakness, Sherlock. I keep you down. Every time you stumble, every time you fail, when you're weak, I am there."

Moriarty threw a punch or a kick with every emphasis of his speech. He finally bent down to grab him by the lapel, holding him over the edge in a very familiar fashion, "No. Don't try to fight it. Lie back and lose!"

Sherlock managed to get to his feet, fighting against Moriarty's strength and the immense pain he was in. Moriarty hung him over the ledge once again, "Shall we go over together? It has to be together, doesn't it? At the end, it's always just you and me."

Someone cleared their throat behind them and both Sherlock and Moriarty looked back, confused by the interruption. Dr Watson stood watching a few feet away. Dr Watson had a gun in his hand, cocking it so that it was ready to fire. He pointed it at Moriarty, "Professor, if you wouldn't mind stepping away from my friend, I do believe he finds your attention a shade annoying."

Moriarty let him go, looking between the two of them, "That's not fair, there's two of you."

Sherlock smirked, "Actually, there's three."

Charlotte stepped out from behind Dr Watson, a broad smirk on her face.

"That's not fair at all!" Moriarty complained.

"There's always three of us." John said, "Don't you read _The Strand?_ "

Charlotte threw Sherlock his hat and John pointed his gun down, "On your knees, Professor. Hands behind your head."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said, watching Moriarty do as he was told.

Dr Watson and Charlotte furrowed their eyebrows. "Since when do you call him John?" Charlotte said.

Sherlock smirked, "You'd be surprised."

Charlotte smiled. She smiled Sherlock's favorite smile with that genuine spark in her eye, and it made him smile right back at her.

"It's time, Sherlock." She said. He gave her a funny look, obviously not understanding.

"Time you woke up, Sherlock." John confirmed, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's confused expression, "I'm a storyteller, I know when I'm in one."

"'Course." Sherlock muttered, "Of course, you do, John."

"So, what're they like? The other us, in the other place."

Sherlock chuckled, "John, he's…He's smarter than he looks. And Lottie she's," he paused, looking this Lottie in the eye, "She's a lot stronger than she thinks."

"Pretty damn smart then." John said. Charlotte laughed, linking arms with John and Sherlock smiled at the sight.

"Pretty damn smart." He said to himself.

From the ground, Moriarty made a disgusted noise, "Oh, why don't you all just elope, for God's sake?"

"No we won't have to, some of us are already engaged." John said, looking between Charlotte and Sherlock. The two smiled and Sherlock reached out his hand for her to join him. Moriarty rolled his eyes.

"Impertinent." John called.

"Offensive." Sherlock added.

"Actually, would you mind?"

"Not at all."

"Actually," Charlotte added, "May I?"

The gentlemen looked at each other and both bowed their heads, allowing her to stand behind Moriarty. Sherlock held her hand to steady her and with a deep breath and a swift kick, Moriarty went tumbling over the waterfall. The three looked over the ledge and Charlotte gave a single nod of approval.

"It was her turn." John said.

"Quite so." Sherlock agreed.

"So, how do you plan to wake up?"

"Ooh," Sherlock smiled, looking down at Charlotte, "I should think like this."

He leaned down to kiss his wife before stepping up to the edge of the rock. Charlotte stood back, clasping her hand in front of her next to John, "You sure?" The Doctor asked.

"Between the three of us, John, Lottie, I always survive the fall."

"But how?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

And just like that, Sherlock took off his hat, threw it over the cliff, and jumped off after it, leaving John and Lottie to watching him disappear into the mist.


	11. Epilogue

'"Flying Machines, these, uh, telephone contraptions, what sort of lunatic fantasy is that?"

Dr Watson and Mr Holmes were sat in their chairs across from each other back in 221B Baker Street with their pipes in hand. Mr Holmes had been telling his companion of this futuristic world he'd imagined when he'd been working on the Ricoletti case.

"It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like and how you, and I, and Miss Holmes, and Miss Watson might fit inside it. From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of and Atlantic or Niagara."

"Or a Reichenbach."

The two men look up at the new voice to find Miss Holmes bringing them their afternoon tea with a broad smile on her face. She set the tray down on the table between their two chairs and her husband thanked her graciously when she handed him a cup.

"Have you written up your account of the case, Dr Watson?" she asked, handing the Doctor his own cup.

"Yes, I have, actually." He beamed. She returned the gesture.

"Oh, I look forward to reading it!"

"Mmm." Mr Holmes sounded unimpressed, "Modified to put it down as one of my rare failures, of course?"

"Of course." Dr Watson assured. Miss Holmes shook her head, muttering how ridiculous the two men were before announcing that she was going to visit with Mrs Hudson downstairs, leaving the men to their gentlemen's chat.

"'The Adventure of…The Invisible Army'?" Mr Holmes suggested after a chaste kiss from his wife and she'd disappeared down the steps. He received no approval from the Doctor and he leaned forward in his chair with bright eyes, "'The League of Furies'? 'The Monstrous Regiment'?"

"I rather thought, 'The Abominable Bride'."

Mr Holmes thinned his lips, sitting back in his chair with an air of settlement, "Trifle lurid."

"It'll sell. It's got proper murders in it, too."

"You are the expert."

"As for your own…Tale." Dr Watson hesitated, earning a look from his companion, "Are you sure, it's still just a 7% solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage."

"Perhaps I was being a little fanciful." Mr Holmes admitted, "But perhaps such things could come to pass. I any case, I know I would be very much at home in such a world."

Mr Holmes stood from his seat, crossing the room away from the sound of the Doctor's scoff, "Don't think I would be."

"I beg to differ. But then I've always known I was a man out of his time."

"Poppycock!"

Sherlock was brought out of his train of thought by Lottie's high-pitched squeak. He looked back at her and found her gawking at him with an open-mouthed smile on her face. He scowled in confusion, thinning his lips as if he was about to argue like a small child.'

"You don't really expect me to believe that."

The two of them were sat on the couch in the living room of 221B Baker St. with Lottie's stocking covered feet tucked warmly in Sherlock's lap. They had a day off for once; no cases, no plans, just the two of them. Since John had moved out Lottie had made his old room into her art studio and she'd spent most of her day there working. But she'd finally convinced Sherlock to tell her what had gone on in his mind palace that fateful day the East Wind brought her beloved detective back to her.

If only she knew what exactly the East Wind had planned.

"Hello!" A new voice from downstairs cut the couple's conversation short. John and Mary bounded up the stairs with baby Rosie in hand. Sherlock watched Lottie's face brighten at the sight, setting her unfinished tea on the table next to the sofa and reaching for her Goddaughter. Her movements made the ring on her finger glimmer whenever the sunlight coming in from the window hit it and Sherlock smiled at the way his fiancée held the baby, bouncing her up and down with the biggest of smiles. Baby Rosie loved her Auntie Lottie and every time she saw her, her little face just lit up with excitement and little happy gurgles escaped her lips.

"Do you mind to watch her for a few hours?" Mary asked Lottie, turning over the baby bag from her shoulder in knowing that Lottie never said no to taking care of Rosie.

"We would love to!" she took the bag from Mary and set it in John's old chair before stepping into the kitchen with Rosie, muttering something about a funny story from Uncle Sherlock.

"We'll be back in a few hours." John told Sherlock as his friend stood from the couch.

"Lottie's so good with Rosie." Mary smiled on at the redhead in the kitchen, bouncing the little one in her arms. She was so happy with the child and Sherlock watched the way her eyes lit up whenever she got a reaction from Rosie. Seeing his fiancée with the little one made his heart thump, his stomach flip, and his brain go fuzzy all at the same time, wavering him a bit. Chemically, he knew what was happening. The way his body was reacting to his significant other with a child told his body that she would be a good mother to their own children, should they have any.

But they hadn't talked about children yet. At all.

"Sherlock, did you hear me?" John brought him out of his thoughts and Sherlock realized he had a smile so big that his cheeks were sore. John and Mary were giving him a knowing look and his face deadpanned.

"Wasn't listening. What were you saying?" he said.

"Have you and Lottie talked about…" John sucked in a deep breath, fidgeting a bit at a conversation that should not have been awkward. But because it was Sherlock Holmes, it was an odd topic to discuss, "You know, having kids?"

Sherlock hesitated, "Oh, no. No kids."

"Are you sure?" Mary teased, pulling Sherlock's attention back to Lottie in the kitchen. A hint of a smirk appeared on his lips and he gave Mary a knowing look.

"We'll see."


End file.
